


Dating Backwards

by RemainNameless



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Porn, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angry Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Derek, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Communication Failure, Creeper Peter, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek is a Failwolf, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is An Asshole, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, Fingerfucking, Frottage, Hale family watches too much A&E, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Rough Sex, Shower Sex, Slow Build, Topping from the Bottom, Voyeurism, Wordcount: 50.000-100.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 85,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemainNameless/pseuds/RemainNameless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pornstars Derek and Stiles work for the same company. Derek only shoots with werewolves and Stiles only shoots with humans. That's not going to change after they meet. It's really not.<br/>(It might.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HAHAHA SO GUESS WHO WROTE A PORNSTAR AU? AND GOT A LITTLE CARRIED AWAY?  
> So here's that 80k porn au no one really asked for, except Silvia, who's my light in the darkness and the best cheerleader in the entire world, and Beth, who's completely perf, FYI.  
> As always, you can hit me up at majestic-beard.tumblr.com <3

 

This mofo's got a [playlist](http://8tracks.com/notenoughgatorade/porn-au), by dearest [Silvia](http://notenoughgatorade.tumblr.com/).

 

* * *

 

 

“So you’re shooting with Danny again today?” Erica asks as she brushes his nose with powder. “That was one of your better BJs last time.” 

“I like him. It’s been, like, a month and a half. I thought I might get to shoot with him again sooner.” 

Twenty feet away, there’s a scene going on, but the mikes are directional and aimed towards it, so there’s no way they’ll be able to pick up this conversation. There’s a line of camera crew and equipment people in the way so Stiles can’t even see who’s shooting on the set before him, but it makes no difference. There’s cleanup between the shoots anyway. 

Really, he shouldn’t even be here yet. He’s fifteen minutes early for makeup, but Danny should be here soon anyway. Last time, he was there before Stiles was, and he’d been a little early then too.

“Danny’s a real sweetheart,” Erica says. She sets the powder brush down and scans through her kit for a tinted lip balm, he knows, because he’s been through this about a million times before. “Speaking of—”

“ _CUT_!” Finstock yells. “Jesus, I’m getting _bored_. Give me a reverse cowgirl before I fall asleep. And someone get the sweat off of his face. I feel like I’m in the splash zone.”

“Be right back, babe,” Erica tells him and runs off for mid-scene touch-ups. Stiles adjusts his robe, trying to find the pocket, and digs out his phone. There’s no text from Danny, but he might not be the texting type. They’d exchanged numbers at the last shoot, but only texted about going out with mutual friends, so who knows. 

“You _know_ I don’t like non-essential people on my sets,” Stiles hears. He rolls his eyes. Some of the actors can be such _divas_. He pulls up Candy Crush to see if he can get past level 147 before Erica gets back. 

“Hey, where’s Erica?” Danny asks, hopping into his seat. 

“Quick break.” Stiles swipes a lemon foursome that doesn’t actually help him any. 

“Who’s shooting right now?”

Stiles looks up, cranes his neck, but he can’t see. He’s lifting up out of his chair a little when a guy comes into view. _Forces_ himself into view, really, because he’s stomping over to them. 

“You. _Non-essentials_. Get the fuck off my set.”

A year and a half ago, Stiles wouldn’t have thought he’d be threatened by a guy with face blotters and an erection, but it’s a very real thing. And a very freaky thing. Dude is _scary_. Stiles kind of falls out of his chair and he and Danny retreat into the changing room. 

“Why do I feel like I’ve just narrowly avoided being murdered?” Stiles asks, eyes wide, back against the shut door.

“This was _Derek_ ’s shoot? And you were just _sitting_ there? How the hell did you even get in? Dude, I’m pretty sure he usually rings caution tape around his sets.”

Stiles’ eyebrows creep towards his hairline. “Wait, this is a _normal_ thing? He does this every shoot? Dude is an _asshole_.”

“Nah, he’s just _really_ particular about his scenes. And he makes enough money that he can get away with it. He does good work.” There’s a telling smirk on his face.

“I hope I never have to shoot with him,” Stiles says, taking a seat in the one armchair. “Seems like a total nightmare.”

Danny shrugs, hands in his robe pockets. “You won’t have to, as long as you don’t change your contract and the magnetic poles don’t reverse. Dude’s an alpha, only shoots with other werewolves. They don’t even schedule our shoots on the same days half the time.” 

Stiles lets out a sigh of relief. “See, this is _exactly_ the reason I don’t do crossover stuff. Attitude problems. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Um,” Danny says with a somewhat pitying look, “because the sex is _awesome_.”

“It can’t be _that_ great.”

Danny quirks his eyebrows, smirking to himself. “Yeah, keep believing that.” He looks _very_ pleased with himself; Stiles rolls his eyes before turning back to his game. His game that he’s going to lose. Again. For the hundredth time. 

 

By the time Stiles has used up all of his lives and resorted to replying to Isaac’s Draw Something from two weeks ago, the door opens. At first, he thinks it’s Erica, but it’s _really_ not. It’s possible his balls retract back into his body. 

“You’re in my way,” the dude, _Derek_ , says. He’s wearing a robe now so it’s not boner central, just _rage_ central. 

Stiles kind of haphazardly gestures to all of the empty space in the room, and Derek rolls his eyes. 

“You’re _right_ in front of the shower, _idiot_.” 

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles says, getting up. “Would it kill you to be polite? Seriously, for a guy who just got fucked, you are _way_ tense.” Danny grabs his arm and yanks him out of the way, barely hiding a chuckle, and Stiles is pretty sure he sees Derek’s eyes flash red. 

“Fuck off,” he hisses, which is something Stiles is _more_ than happy to do. 

“ _Gladly_ , dude,” Stiles throws over his shoulder, a parting shot. 

People are cleaning the set and Erica pulls them aside. She seems more stressed than she was before, when she was prettying him up, and her lips are pursed when she looks over him. 

“I think you look good enough, cutie pie. Don’t want to cover up those freckles, do we?” Stiles rolls his eyes because it’s not a _joke_ , not really, but it kind of is. He doesn’t make a habit of reading the comments on his videos for obvious reasons, but he did once, while drunk and curious. There are only so many times he can read about strangers wanting to jizz on his face before it becomes funny. And then he started _visualizing_ , and that was a lot of penises, okay? Out of his comfort zone. By a lot.

Stiles hops up and goes to make sure his makeup is good for Finstock’s _vision_. He does a little turn, even.

“We all good, Boss?”

“Do you look like we’re going to need to show proof of your age, you mean? _Yes_. For the sake of my arrest record, I hope to God they never put you in a school uniform.”

That’s as much as a thumbs up as he ever gets, so Stiles grins, looking around. The set looks nice and clean, no asshole werewolf spooge in sight. Boyd looks like he’s going over camera angles, and when Stiles catches his eye he shakes his head. Busy. Figures. 

Erica doesn’t look at him when he sits back down, taking care of the late-night-studying circles under Danny’s eyes. 

“So is that dude always such a douchebag?” Stiles asks. He _would_ be making another attempt at Candy Crush, but he still has three minutes before his next life. 

“Who, Derek?” she asks. “He’s not _that_ bad. You caught him five hours into a three hour shoot. He had to pick his sister’s kids up, like, forty minutes ago. He’s only about sixty percent of an asshole most of the time.”

Stiles snorts. “How do assholes even make it in this business? If no one wants to work with you...”

“It’s his dick,” Danny says, and Erica shushes him so he won’t move his face.

“It’s not _just_ his dick,” Erica tells him. “Although I’m pretty sure a dildo of it exists somewhere. No, he’s really good at what he does. Really professional. And he’s made people’s careers, you know? That’s how Isaac got his leg up.” 

“Ugh, _Isaac_ boned him? I _like_ Isaac. Sometimes.”

“Actually, _he_ boned Isaac,” Danny says. “He’s a bit of a one-trick pony, if you know what I mean. But I’m serious, check out his technique sometime.”

Stiles lemon-faces. “I don’t watch other people’s videos. I don’t watch my _own_ unless I’m bored and drunkies. Too weird.”

“ _Okay_ , Meryl Streep.” Stiles sticks his tongue out at her, but she doesn’t see. 

“But really, how _do_ you get dildos made of your dick? I mean, I’m not _saying_ mine is dildo-worthy, but _I_ ’m kind of fond of it. Wait, if you fucked yourself with a dildo made of your own dick, would that be, like, _double_ masturbation?”

Danny leans over, puts a hand on Stiles’ knee and looks at him with big brown eyes. “You need to _stop_.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. Screw him, that’s a legitimate question. 

But his next life on Candy Crush is ready to go, so he’s got bigger priorities.

 

“Scale of one to ten, how unprepared are you for the Philosophy midterm?” Scott asks around a mouth full of nachos. 

“About a six,” Stiles says, “pack of Redbull in the fridge that if any of you touch, it’ll be the last thing you do, so help me.”

“Fuck. I was going to ask you to give me a crash course in Descartes tonight,” Isaac says. At the other end of the couch, Allison is quiet because _she_ doesn’t procrastinate, but she’s nice enough not to gloat about it either. 

“You can have my notes,” Stiles tells him, then finishes off his beer. “Ugh, I just want to _sleep_.”

“You had a shoot today, right?” Allison asks. She liberates a nacho from the baking sheet on the coffee table. 

Stiles nods. “Yeah, with Danny. Went well, but I’m _wiped_.”

“He’s good for that,” Isaac says with a little smirk. Allison slaps him, grinning. “Hey, I like Danny! He’s fun. I’m just glad I’m not shooting with him before my midterms.”

“Does anyone think we’re going to survive the week?” Scott asks. “Because I think we’re going to die.”

Allison pops a nacho into her mouth. “I’ll blow whoever finishes studying first.”

“Not fair,” Stiles points because he knows he’s not included in _whoever_. Which is _fine_ , and he’s _very_ comfortable with that arrangement, but still. It’s the principle of the thing.

“If you study for me, _I_ ’ll blow you,” Scott says and Stiles grimaces.

“ _Pass_.”

Isaac gives him a little smirk. “He’s very good. You’re missing out.”

“ _No thank you_ ,” Stiles says, a bad taste in his mouth. “We popped zits together. Our dicks are not coming into contact with each others’ bodies. And I’m pretty sure it’s incest.”

“You’re _step_ brothers,” Allison corrects. “That’s not incest. It just makes family gatherings a little awkward.”

“I like to keep it within my own species anyway,” Stiles says, _not_ thinking about banging Scott. 

Scott sticks his tongue out. “That’s racist, dude.”

“No, it’s speciesist, and it’s a reasonable fear. I don’t know for sure that there aren’t freaky werewolf things happening to your junk. And I _don’t_ want to get bitten by a fang-happy dude in the heat of the moment.” Everyone’s rolling their eyes, but since two of them _are_ werewolves and the third is banging them, that’s just pure bias. “Also, _werewolf jizz_. I think that’s all that needs to be said.” 

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Isaac says. 

Stiles covers his ears, shaking his head. “Nope, I don’t want to hear it. You made me watch that one video and that was all I ever needed to see for the rest of my life. I _still_ drink to wipe those images out.” The problem is that Stiles can pretty much read lips so he can see Scott saying _abnormal conditions, that was way more than there usually is_ , so he shuts his eyes and hums Party in the U.S.A. until he knows they’ve given up.

There are battles worth fighting, and one day, they’re going to learn that this isn’t one of them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Derek’s _always_ early. 

That’s basic professionalism. If you’re on time, you’re late, so he tries to show up with a good hour to spare before he’s supposed to go into makeup. It gives him time to run through his lines (however limited they may be) and get into the headspace of his character. Sure, it’s technically pornography, but they’re still people with motivations, and reflecting on those motivations lends a realism to the scene. People can tell. He’s tried to explain that to Laura, who’d laughed too hard for him to get three words out, but it’s completely true.

And that’s not just him talking. That’s the numbers. 

His videos get more views than any other actors’ in his category. 

That’s _facts_.

So he shows up early and he treats this like a _real job_ , unlike a bunch of the younger guys who are still in the _haha look people pay me money to get off!_ stage. They don’t take it seriously at all, and that’s how shitty porn is made. If he’s going to be a part of the industry, he’s going to at least do it right.

(The reality of the situation is that he _doesn’t_ _have_ other places to be, but if he’s at work, he feels like he’s doing something.)

It’s the _dignity of purpose_. That’s the point of it.

He comes in quietly, sits in a chair, and pulls up the pdf of his script on his phone. It’s pretty short and he’s read it enough times that this isn’t necessary, but that’s okay. It’s something to do, at least. 

The chair he’s in isn’t as far back as usual, and he realizes belatedly that he must have taken one of the actor’s chairs by mistake. It puts him a bit closer to the scene than he prefers. Professional courtesy keeps his eyes glued down, but when a chorus of moans turns into a yelled, “ _Oh FUCK!_ ” Derek looks up at the noise.

And he can’t look away.

This guy is getting _wrecked_. His hair looks a little familiar, actually, but Derek can’t see his face because it’s buried in the sheets. His hands are reaching out in front of him like he’s trying to drag himself away, but Derek can see from the movement of his hips that he’s meeting each thrust. 

“Come on, _give_ it to me,” he says, and Derek can see that the guy behind him is tired. His face is red, a little more red than they like to edit out, and he’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He’s wearing out, and Derek knows it’s that more than a dominance play that makes him stop and try barking orders.

“Do it yourself,” the guy pants, and Derek has to at least give him credit for improvising rather than calling for a break. 

Watching, Derek finds himself oddly pleased. It’s good quality stuff like this that’s the reason Derek still does this anymore. Not really on account of the top because, professional as he is, he’s out of his league. No, the guy bottoming is _impressive_. There are guys (and girls) who do little more than just lay there and say “ _oh oh oh_ ” because they’re uncreative. It’s lazy. Easy. And it’s completely not the point of good pornography. One person’s not supposed to do all the work, and this guy clearly has an understanding of that.

He’s _good_. The roll of his hips shouldn’t be called anything but _artful_ because that’s what it is. There’s _craft_ in it, like a trained dancer or something, and shit, Derek could watch this all day. 

The guy’s obviously enjoying it, too. He’s braced himself up on his elbows and he’s _grinning_. 

The second Derek recognizes him, they make eye contact. For the first time in a few years, Derek’s _mortified_. He’s a _professional_ , and he’s proud of that, but watching like this is _not_ professional, not in the least. 

He looks away, back at the guy behind this _kid_ (because he looks barely-legal, _fuck_ ), and the scene is going to be over pretty soon. The guy’s got his lip between his teeth and looks like he’s desperately thinking of his grandma to hold off, but Derek can read people well enough to know it’s hopeless.

Derek is _not_ imagining how the kid’s ass must feel. He’s really not. 

But watching his ass is really not helping, so Derek tries to find somewhere safe to look. _That_ fails, because his face definitely doesn’t qualify for _safe_ , but the kid sort of quirks his eyebrows at him.

Derek is going to get fired. 

This is _not_ an okay thing that he’s doing, and courtesy says that if he can’t look somewhere else, he should just leave the fucking room, but he’s not. 

“Oh, _fuck_ , I can’t—” the top says and _groans_ unmistakably. 

Well, looks like they _are_ going to end ahead of schedule.

“ _CUT!_ ” Finstock yells. “Come on, men, we had another position! What are you, _fourteen_? Have a _little_ stamina, Christ. That’s just _sad_.” 

“That was a little bit my fault,” the kid says. “Sorry about that.” The guy pulls out of him slow, wincing a little. 

“Well, I _know_ that, Stilinski,” Finstock barks. “Would it kill you to go easy on a newbie?” _Stilinski_ sits up, smirking with the sort of arrogance that comes from unchecked success, and Derek is _not_ looking at any part of his body other than his face. Someone throws him a robe, though, so Derek’s spared. 

“Criticizing me for doing my job well? How very bureaucratic of you,” he says as he gets up and wraps himself in the robe. _Now_ Derek looks down at his phone and buries himself in a Dan Brown rip-off that he doesn’t actually have any investment in. He’s reading the same sentence over and over and listening because he’s apparently a wide-eyed kid again.

“How long before you can get it up again?” Finstock asks the other actor.

“Shit, like, fifteen. Maybe twenty.” 

Finstock sighs heavily. “Alright, everybody take ten. Stilinski, you’ve got a money shot coming up next, so don’t get too distracted.” 

Derek is very, very focused on his script, on these position changes. He’s _focused_ , and he’s not acting like it’s his first fucking time on-set.

“You know, for a guy who’s a total control freak about who he allows in the room, you sure don’t have a problem watching other people.” Derek looks up and this Stilinski kid is standing in front of him, smirking around a water bottle. These days, Derek’s a pretty quick judge of character, and he can tell already that the kid’s _insufferable_. 

Derek doesn’t blink. “Professional curiosity,” he says. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I don’t care. It’s not like you can’t watch it online in a couple days anyway. I just think it’s pretty hypocritical of you.” The kid _squirts_ the water into his mouth, face tilting up for it because he knows what it looks like, and Derek’s done. He’s just being an asshole about it now. 

“Fine. Then stick around for the next shoot. See if I care.” 

If Derek’s being childish and there’s no Laura around to hear it, does it still count?

 _No_ is the answer to that. 

He’s a mature, responsible, _professional_ adult. 

“Maybe I will,” the kid says. He gives Derek a sidelong look before heading over to Erica. Derek follows him with his eyes, then ends up catching Boyd’s eye.

Boyd’s look is dry and he just shakes his head. Rolling his eyes, Derek returns to his phone and doesn’t think about the weird and stupid thing he just did. Or how he’s apparently losing it.

 

Derek takes a bathroom break a little after they start up again. It’s not strategically-timed. It’s total coincidence that he misses Stilinski coming all over his chest. It just so happened that he missed that little bit even though he could hear from the bathroom because the doors _aren’t_ soundproof, not really. 

Derek’s just not thinking about it. 

 

Erica checks over his beard when he gets back into his chair, trimming a stray hair or two. He doesn’t look at her because she’s smirking and that’s not _fair_. He’s just having an off day today. That’s it. 

It turns out that not looking at her is actually a bad idea because his eyes roam and he ends up seeing Stilinski on his knees, the other guy jerking off over his face, and—

“You look lovely today,” he tells Erica. One of her eyebrows shoots up and she glances over her shoulder.

“Cute. You know, I could talk—”

“Nope.” He gives her a look. “Don’t even. We’re not going there.”

“I’m just saying, Isaac lives with him,” she says sweetly. “If you ever change your mind, you could just ask him.”

“Not going to happen. I just respect his talents. _Professionally_. Don’t get any ideas. I mean it. He seems like an asshole anyway.” The effectiveness of his glare is somewhat lessened by the fact that she’s taming his eyebrows with a very small comb.

She shrugs. “I’m not, and I won’t. Unless you end up peacocking for him this afternoon. _Then_ I might get ideas.”

“He’s not going to stick around anyway,” he tells her.

“What makes you so sure?” she asks. “I know Stiles a _lot_ better than you do.”

“That’s a stupid name.”

She snorts. “No, what’s _stupid_ is your refusal to wax these caterpillars so that _I_ have to deal with them.” She yanks a hair from between his brows with her tweezers. The aggression is unnecessary and unsurprising. They have an ongoing argument about his eyebrows that, ultimately, he will always win because they’re on _his_ face, but she hasn’t exactly come to that conclusion yet.

(He’s actually considering relenting because they do this _every freaking time_ and he’s pretty sure the plucking hurts no less than it did the first time, about a million years ago.)

“Still on for tomorrow night?” the kid, _Stiles_ , says, and for a weird second, Derek thinks he’s talking to _him_ , but Erica answers.

“Yep! You bet your cute ass we are,” she says with a leer, and Derek’s not _looking_ , but out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stiles do a little wiggle for her. 

Maybe it’s time for a career change. These people are the worst. 

“Who’s your partner today?” she asks Derek, covering his eyes as she spritzes his brows with a tiny bottle of hairspray. 

“Don’t know,” he says, and Erica pulls back to give him an unimpressed look.

She tilts his head back and with gentle fingers holds his eye open for eye drops. “One of these days, you’re actually going to have to pay attention to your co-stars. And stop staying up all night staring at screens. Someone else would think you’d smoked a bowl before coming.” She squeezes a couple drops into his other eye and he blinks a few times. It feels better already, and it’s not the kind of red eyes he’s supposed to have for this anyway.

“ _Insomnia_ ,” he tells her. “And I _do_ pay attention to them. I just don’t need to know their names to be able to do my job. It’s not important.” 

“ _Alright, then_ ,” she says. It’s patronizing and he shouldn’t have to deal with this. 

“We done?”

She pulls away, takes him in. “Sure are, hot stuff. Get ready to make someone see Jesus with your dick.”

“I hate you,” he tells her honestly, but he needs to talk to Finstock about the script. Because it’s one of the worst he’s seen. 

 

Twenty minutes later, Derek’s lost his battle with Finstock and he’s standing off-stage in this cheap suit and the beta he’s doing the scene with is on the bed Stiles had been on. The sheets are different and they moved the bed around a little, but it’s the fact of the thing.

Not that it matters. And it doesn’t matter that he knows Stiles is sitting just off-stage in his street clothes.

But for the first time in a while, Derek’s kind of _embarrassed_. 

“And _ACTION!_ ” Finstock calls.

Derek takes a breath and walks into the “room” with purpose. He looks at the beta on the bed, sprawled out like he’s sleeping, even though it looks uncomfortable. That’s not a good resting position for someone’s spine, that’s for sure, but it shows off the guy’s ass, and that’s the point, isn’t it? Suffering a little to make something good.

“Daddy’s home,” Derek says confidently. The fact that he manages it is a proof of the power of acting because the line is _awful_ , and the beta is about to “wake up” when there’s a giggle-snort off-stage.

“Jesus Christ, _CUT_!” Finstock yells. He walks onto the set to look at Stiles, who’s failing at holding back his laughter. 

“I know! I’m sorry, it’s just—” Stiles cackles “ _Daddy’s home_. Please. Oh Lord, I can’t breathe.”

“Yeah, why don’t you go laugh at Greenberg, then? And get the hell off my set, Stilinski.”

 _That_ seems to get him. “I’ll be quiet, I swear. Jesus, did anyone _approve_ that line? Does Greenberg answer to anyone? Because he _should_. After _that_ , he should.”

“Take it up with Peter Hale, why don’t you. Or _shut_. the hell. _up_.” Finstock jabs a finger at him before turning back to Derek and the other actor. “From the top, gentlemen. _Thanks_.”

So Derek does it again, and this time, he hears Stiles’ breath catch in his throat, but he’s _not paying attention to that_. He’s busy. He’s working. He’s _acting_.

The beta twists a little, in a way that looks _painful_ for his spine but shows off his ass, and looks at him with fake sleepiness. “‘S late,” he says, smacking his lips. “Coming to bed?” 

The character he’s playing is an assertive alpha, a high-powered lawyer, he imagines, who’s just finished a very long day. His case didn’t go well, and he’s stressed about it, and perhaps he’s trying to regain some control in his life after some sort of professional failure. 

“Come here,” he says, low, crooking a finger.

The beta doesn’t seem to be _quite_ expecting it, almost, but he goes with it, crawls down the bed towards him. Derek slides a hand into his hair and, a little rough, pulls his head back. It puts a little strain on his throat, Derek can see, and his mouth opens with it. 

In the script, this is where they kiss, but Derek isn’t feeling it, so he slips his thumb into the guy’s mouth instead. He likes that, at least that’s what his scent says, and _real_ arousal is always good to work with. When the guy shuts his eyes, he takes that as a good enough sign to go back to the script. 

He pulls the guy up high enough to get to his mouth, knows that his balance depends on Derek holding him up with a hand in his hair and one closed around the back of his neck. Derek doesn’t _really_ kiss him. It’s not really the sort of thing that should be called a kiss. It’s more like he’s fucking into the beta’s mouth, giving him a preview of what’s coming to him with his tongue. 

The guy’s moan is very real. It’s a bit of a pride thing with Derek, getting his costars to actually get into it. It means he’s doing his job well. If they forget they’re acting, then someone watching forgets they’re acting. 

Derek never forgets he’s acting. 

But then, he’s very good at being convincing.

 _That_ isn’t pride. It’s numbers. It’s views, comments, subscriptions. It’s fact.

The beta goes for his belt, and Derek releases him so he can get to it better. It’s kind of an obvious thing, this set-up, with the guy on his hands and knees, mouthing at the front of Derek’s pants. The shape of his body, shoulders to waist to hips, is familiarized into abstraction, almost, after years of seeing guys and girls exactly the same way.

Derek settles a hand on the top of his head, not pushing, just keeping him there. His breath is hot and damp through Derek’s slacks, and he’s a little behind, actually. It’s not very professional to be soft on camera, he thinks, so he scrapes through his mind for some arousing image to latch onto. 

It’s not a thing he’s going to acknowledge ever again, but it’s the image of Stiles’ face turned up in a grin and the roll of his hips that does it. 

His character is tired, a minimal effort kind of guy, at least until he gets a little more into the moment, so he doesn’t help the beta unbuckle his belt. Derek does shrug off his jacket, but that’s more because he’s worried the guy will forget about it until it’s awkward. 

He undoes each of Derek’s buttons with this look Derek wants to call good acting, but he’s not entirely sure that’s what it is. Derek makes a living off of his body; he knows he’s hot. It’s his _job_ , but he’s surrounded by attractive people most of the time he’s at work. Everyone is. Apparently, he does it for this guy, though. 

Because he’s a professional, Derek sometimes looks down on other actors who get _too_ into it. The job isn’t about getting paid to have sex. It’s really not. It’s about getting paid to put on a show, to make it look really, really good so that someone else can get off on it. Getting into it isn’t part of that. It makes for difficult camera angles and too few shots and retakes. 

Derek can handle it. Some guys, put a mouth on their dick and they lose all sense of work ethic. They forget to make way for a camera or, if their partner’s _good_ , they have to stop the scene to get themself under control. Derek’s fine.

It’s gotten to the point that he could probably get head for a good couple hours without blowing his load. Admittedly, it would probably hurt, probably a lot, but he could _do_ it, if needed. He’s good at doing things with his hands, touching the other person’s face, _looking_ like it’s great. 

And he has a good gauge for where the other actor is.

This guy is ready for Derek to fuck his mouth, so he does. Makes it look like he needs it, holds the guy’s head where he wants it, and pulls back before he chokes or gags. Because he’s a professional. It’s important to take care of your scene partner. 

He’s running through the script in his head, figuring out what’s next because given how the guy smells, he’s probably not thinking too hard about it. Derek can take the lead. They pair him with newbies for exactly that reason, because he’s good at it. He knows how to say things so people will remember their cues, or so they don’t need to.

“Turn around,” Derek tells the guy, idly watching his dick slip from his mouth. 

He moves quick, presents himself to Derek in a way he’s seen a million times. Derek leans over him, pressing his face between the man’s shoulder blades, scraping his skin red for a few seconds. 

“Been waiting for this all day,” he says.

“Me too.”

There’s a skipped line or two in there, but unless Finstock calls it, he won’t break character. 

Derek pulls back, hands on the guy’s ass. Spanking wasn’t in the script, but he squeezes, feels the muscle beneath his hands. When he spreads the guy’s cheeks, he sees the slick shine of lube. He should be ready to go, but Derek likes to check, just in case. 

In press two fingers, easy enough that he goes for a third, and there’s really no difference. Good. It’s easier when everyone does their job. 

After a moment for the cameras to get a good look, Derek lines himself up. He’s not really as hard as he should be, but it’s not obvious, and it’ll be fine once he’s inside.

In theory, he’s supposed to accept jobs with people he’s attracted to. Except he doesn’t, not always, because if it’s acting, that’s not necessary, is it? He doesn’t have to think they’re the hottest person he’s ever seen or anything. It’s fine. 

But he _does_ need to get a _little_ more into this to be convincing. 

He ducks his head down, fingers wrapped around the base of his cock as he pushes all the way inside, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement. Just a little, enough for his eyes to flick away off-set. Which is a mistake because Stiles is sitting there, one ankle on his knee, his fingers pressed to his lips. 

Derek might hate him. A little bit. 

Letting him sit in was a mistake. Really, he has no idea why he did it because he _never_ lets people watch. They can pay if that’s what they want to do. 

It’s not that he’s nervous, it just takes him out of his head, and for a second, he drops character, grabs the beta’s hips too tight. It’s okay because he likes it, but Derek is _not_ looking off to the side again. He’s _very_ focused. 

They’ll be like this for a few minutes, so he counts the seconds. It’s good for pacing the whole shoot if he keeps track of the time, and there’s no stop clock, so it’s what he has. He changes up his pace every now and then. In another situation, it might be impressive that he can think a different tempo than his body is moving at, but it’s the kind of thing he should probably keep to himself.

When Finstock gives the signal, Derek goes through the motions for the next position. Lets the guy ride him for a while. He’s not sleepy, but his character is, so he doesn’t put much effort into it. He saves that for the last position. 

In the meantime, he reminds himself that he needs to pick up milk on the way home. And maybe a steak or two for this week. And he finished the granola at lunch, didn’t he? _Finally_ , because he tried a different brand and it was _not_ the same.

It’s possible he’s a second or two late for the next switch, and he resolves to make it up. He gets the guy on his back, settles neatly between his legs, but on his right, he can _feel_ this aura of _not impressed_. He allows himself a look, really quick, and maybe he thrusts into the guy a little too hard. 

 _Fuck_ Stiles. Derek is _good_ at what he does. Last week, he had over twenty thousand views on his video in the first twenty-four hours it was up. _Fuck_ Stiles.

“Oh fuck, yeah, give it to me,” the guy beneath him moans, and Derek realizes he’s being more aggressive than his character warrants. But Jesus, he doesn’t care. Because if Stiles wants to be _impressed?_ Then Derek will impress him. Derek will impress him so hard he has to leave so no one sees him come in his pants.

They move up the bed a bit, but Derek doesn’t really realize it until the beta grabs the headboard. Shit, Derek almost hit his head. But he’s not going to give up. He makes up the difference by pulling the guy against him.

The script specified that the cumshot would be in Derek’s mouth, but he’s paying less attention than he should because the guy shoves his hand into his mouth, shooting all over his chest. Might as well just go with it, Derek figures, so he pulls out and jerks off a little too hard. Not what he usually likes, but it gets him to the edge in a few seconds. 

The guy doesn’t blink when Derek’s jizz hits his face, but Derek might bite through his lip. A little. Not deep enough that anyone would notice.

They’re ten minutes ahead of schedule.

It fills Derek with a deep sense of having disappointed someone. Himself, really. 

Sloppy shoot. Sloppy fucking shoot. _This_ is why he doesn’t like people off-stage. Because it trips him up and he makes mistakes that he shouldn’t make. 

Someone hands him a towel and Derek cleans them up, _barely_ manages to restrain himself from throwing it at Stiles’ stupid fucking face. _That_ would just be another layer of unprofessional on this total fuck-up of a day. Christ. 

“Do you need anything else?” he asks Finstock, and it comes out closer to a growl than he’d ever like to admit to himself. 

“Uh, no, I think that’ll edit together just fine.” Finstock’s eyes are a little wide and Derek is _not_ going to punch him. 

 _Shit_.

“I’m out,” he says to no one in particular.

There’s no such thing as an angry shower, but if there was, well. It isn’t the _happiest_ shower of his life. He doesn’t punch the tile, though, so it’s fine. 

He’s not going to stand for this. He’s not going to let some arrogant kid make him lose control. Not fucking likely.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't know what a roofie circle is, I suggest you click the link when you get there because it's not as bad as it sounds, I swear.  
> Also, fair warning, this takes place in a world where everyone knows about werewolves, there's some werewolf-racism or speciesism or whatever you want to call it. Specifically, Stiles has some erroneous and offensive ideas. It's addressed and called out later, but it's there, so if that's not exactly your cup of tea, I totally understand :)   
> And there's some assumed misogyny that isn't actually. jsyk  
> ALSO, PETER HALE WARNING  
> ps i will warn for dubious consent before we get there, so don't worry bbs <3

“Hey, you fuckers,” Erica greets as she comes to the table with a tray of drinks. “Just so you know, I’m not playing waitress again. Bartender gave me the stink-eye.”

“I’ll do it next time,” Danny says because he looks fucking twenty-seven and it’s not fair, but Stiles isn’t bitter. 

“Shame Boyd couldn’t come out tonight,” Scott says as he helps distribute drinks.

Erica sighs. “Yeah, he got roped into babysitting duty. Well, technically, so did _I_ , but he got to go out last week, so.”

“I told you,” Isaac says, “this is why you should’ve made more of an effort at being a bad influence. Laura _never_ asks me to babysit.” 

“No, she never asks you to babysit because you’re in school and for _some_ reason, she thinks you value your education,” Erica points out. "Even though _some_ of us have decent-paying, stable jobs and didn't need to go to college." 

Stiles follows the exchange with his eyes, frowning. “Sorry, who’s Laura again?”

“Our alpha’s sister,” Isaac answers heavily. “One of them, at least. The less violent one.” Stiles grimaces because those two _would_ share an alpha. Thank God Scott doesn’t bother with that crap. 

“That reminds me,” Erica says, “Stiles, tell everyone about your shoot with Derek.” Stiles coughs, chokes, and snorts out his drink all over him. Allison thumps him on the back with an amused look. It takes him a moment to catch his breath.

“Fuck you,” he says, grabbing napkins. “That was, like, five dollars worth of alcohol. Do you know how much ramen I could buy with that?”

“Um, more importantly, _shoot with Derek_?” Danny asks. “He _never_ , _ever_ , not for _years_ does shoots with humans. How the _fuck_ did you manage to set _that_ up?”

“Wait, _Derek_ -Derek?” Scott asks, putting his fingers on his forehead like angry eyebrows.

“ _Yep_ ,” Erica says with a smirk.

Stiles frowns. “Wait, how do _you_ know Derek?” Going by his grimace, Scott isn't really a fan. Which Stiles _gets_ , really really gets, because dude is a _jerk_.

Allison pats Scott’s hand. “It was bad timing,” she explains. “A couple weeks before we had our contracts re-written to only shoot with each other, Derek and I almost did a scene. Scott got a little jealous. You remember what it was like back then.” Stiles grimaces because he _does_ ; he had to buy earplugs _and_ earmuffs because a jealous Scott is apparently a _horny_ Scott and that’s something he never needed to know, but does, really does because of fucking Isaac. Because they agreed that _he_ didn’t have to be exclusive about his shoots, but that means there’s possessive sex happening a wall away every few days. “And then he and _Scott_ were going to do a shoot together, but Derek asked him to join his pack first, so _that_ didn’thappen.”

“But the _important_ thing,” Danny says, “is that I want details. How did it happen? Did you sell your soul? Did you make a deal with the devil? Did you make a deal with _Peter_?”

“I didn’t _shoot_ with him. Thank _God_. That would’ve been a _nightmare_.”

“I think you’re getting your words confused,” Isaac says. Scott’s eyebrows shoot up and he back-pedals. “I mean, you’re right. Total nightmare. But still. I mean, you _know_ what I’m talking about.” 

Danny and Erica both nod like _they_ know what he means, but Stiles is lost. 

“Okay, but Derek’s dick aside, what _happened_?” Danny asks.

“Yeah, hasn’t he not shot with a human since, well, Kate?” Allison asks, and Stiles frowns. For reasons, mostly being that his father is a straight man who probably watches porn sometimes, he’s never done a scene with a woman, and Kate joined another company not long after he’d signed up, but he’s heard _stories_. About Allison’s crazy aunt, who’d encouraged her, a rebellious nineteen-year-old, to do porn. Stiles has his biases, he knows that, but that’s not _exactly_ what he’d call healthy family values. She’d also, from what he’s heard, been a _horror_ to work with. 

“ _Technically_ , Stiles didn’t shoot with him,” Erica says.

“Damn right I didn’t,” Stiles says. “He’s like a _machine_. And not in a good way. I know he’s, like, the full package, but _Jesus_.” 

“Wait, so what even happened then?” Isaac asks. 

Stiles shoots Erica a glare. “ _Nothing_.” 

“Derek creeped on Stiles’ shoot, got a boner, and asked him to stick around to show off his sexual prowess. It was basically a mating dance. Well, a mating fuck. With someone else.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Scott says, and Allison gives him a look.

“I think it worked just fine last night,” she says, and she and Isaac high-five across the table, grinning.

“ _Okay_ , point taken.”

No matter how hard he tries to live in willful ignorance, Stiles knows _way_ more about their sex life than he ever wanted. Probably because he shares a one-bathroom apartment with them. That might have something to do with it.

“Actually, the _point_ is that none of that is remotely true. Well, Derek creeped a little. But I don’t think it was boner-creeping. And he wasn’t showing off because he wanted a piece of my fine ass. He was showing off because I’m pretty sure he’s at least a little bit mentally unhinged. Dude has a stick up his ass and not in a good way. Anal retentive. Or just...ugh. I get bad vibes from him.”

“That was at least ten times less interesting than you lead me to believe,” Danny tells Erica. “That was really boring. Wow.”

“I think you had to be there,” she tells him.

“Okay, everything aside, though,” Stiles says, looking at her intensely, “is his o-face really that angry all the time?”

“ _Yes_.” That comes from _three_ sources, and Stiles is kind of concerned, for the second time today (there were things in the kitchen this morning that should _not_ have been there) that maybe they’re all a little too comfortable with each other. Maybe that’s not normal.

Danny sighs heavily. “Well, this is great, but I want to dance. We’re at a club and we’re sitting in a corner talking about work. That’s sad.”

“Amen,” Erica says, raising her glass before finishing off her drink in a single gulp. 

“I’m all for dancing,” Allison says, looking at Scott and Isaac.

 _Oh, the curse of being single_ , Stiles muses, even though, technically, Danny is as well, but Danny’s probably going to find someone to fuck. Because everyone wants fuck Danny. It’s a thing. Stiles, on the other hand...in his clothes, he’s not a very obvious sex bomb. 

Sure, every now and then, someone will give him The Look, the I’ve-seen-you-with-someone-else’s-dick-in-or-around-your-person Look. At bars, sometimes, but also in his classes. Guys, less often, girls, and on one very uncomfortable (for everyone) occasion, a professor. But The Look is usually accompanied by fear and The _Other_ Look, the holy-shit-you-know-I’ve-gotten-off-on-you-getting-off Look, and it doesn’t exactly get Stiles laid. 

One day, he’s going to ask Danny how he manages it, but, to be quite honest, he gets enough action. 

Pretty much. 

Alright, slightly less than he might like, and the fact that he’s pretty sure the people he’s living with fuck all over the apartment when he’s not there makes him a little sad and lonely in his pants. But it’s a grass-is-always-greener thing. Well, a sex-is-always-better-on-the-other-side-of-the-wall thing. 

“Go ahead,” he tells everyone, “I’m going to get another drink. I’ll find you all later.” 

His first drink was a little light on the alcohol and he’d snorted most of it all over himself, so another’s in order. It’s possible he might be in a drinking mood. He’s done with all of his homework for the weekend, he did well on all of his midterms, so why not? 

“Long Island Iced Tea,” he tells the bartender, running his finger over the edge of the fake ID in his pocket. The bartender narrows his eyes, but apparently decides he looks vaguely old enough. 

“Fifteen bucks,” the guy tells him, and Stiles officially hates going out. Because that’s not the most he’s paid for a drink, unfortunately, but it’s still four Starbucks runs. 

He sighs, tips modestly, and leans against the bar in wait. 

A woman comes up next to him but doesn’t make eye-contact, so Stiles doesn’t try hitting on her. Even though she’s totally hot. Nope. Not gonna do it. 

“One Long Island,” the bartender says when he comes back, and the woman next to him looks at him then, an eyebrow raised. 

“Looks like _someone_ ’s getting their drink on tonight.” Stiles doesn’t really get offended because it’s _true_ , and he’s an adult, but he feels maybe a little defensive about it. 

“What do you want?” the bartender asks her. Stiles takes a sip of his drink; it’s good, can’t even taste the tequila. 

“Two mojitos, wolfsbane,” she says and _oh_. Well, he’s not surprised by that. “And you know what? Bring me a couple of shots. Jaeger. I have someone to get drunk tonight.”

“Don’t think you need to ply anyone with alcohol to get laid,” Stiles says casually. He’s _not_ hitting on her. Not really. But she does have nice eyes and her smile is the kind he likes. Wide and bright and a little sharp.

“Oh, no, I’m well taken care of,” she says, holding up her left hand where a wedding band glints in the club lights, and wow, Stiles is an idiot. “But if you happen to like men, I’ll set you up.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Continue.”

“My well-meaning brother needs to get laid. Now, most of the time, he hates people, but none of these drinks are for me. Everyone has a friendly drunk inside of them, right?” Stiles frowns because no, that’s not _really_ how it works, and she keeps going. “Look, he’s hot, you’re not so bad yourself, and he’s driving me crazy. He won’t let me dance by myself because he thinks it’s _dangerous_ , pssh, and my ball and chain isn't the dancing type, but I’m not going to stand in a corner all night. This isn’t a middle school dance, you know?”

This sounds like something Stiles doesn’t want to get mixed-up in. Let people resolve their own issues and all that. But he hasn’t had a non-work lay in, well, over three months. (Three months, three weeks, six days, specifically, which is _not_ four months, thank you very much, but he’s not counting or anything.)

“How hot?” he asks, taking a few too-fast gulps of his drink. 

The woman grins in a way that _might_ be dangerous. “Oh, you won’t be disappointed. I’ll tell him to come over.” 

That’s when Stiles realizes that she asked for too many wolfsbane drinks for one person, which means this hot brother is probably a werewolf, which he’s not really comfortable with, for business or pleasure. But it’s probably offensive to tell someone he doesn’t know that he doesn’t want to fuck their species? So he’ll just say that he’s not interested and it’ll be fine, right? And he can always say he needs to give a friend a ride home or something so he can’t go home with the guy. It’ll be fine. 

“Now, he makes horrible first impressions, but he’s not so bad and I’ll make him drink before he talks to you, okay? It’s the least I can do,” the woman says, and Stiles is starting to feel a little bit like he’s being pimped out. It’s kind of sketchy, actually, and he’s thinking he’ll give a polite no, when she turns. “Oh, _there_ you are. Here, I’d like you to meet...” she jabs Stiles in the ribs, and he turns to give the guy a half-smile.

And turns back to the bar with the sudden need to be at least five hundred times drunker.

 _Nope_. Not even. This is not happening. 

“What the _fuck_ , Laura?” Derek asks, and Stiles’ head thuds against the bar. He’s going to disappear any minute now—

“Wait, do you _know_ each other?” Stiles is _not_ going to look at either of them, this is not happening. “Wow, I’m good,” she says, and there’s an accomplished grin in her voice

“No, you’re really not,” Derek says, and Stiles is actually kind of glad he’s a massive douche because he’s pissed at someone he doesn’t even know and he feels weird about that, but if Derek’s her brother, he can be pissed for him. 

“I would like to second that,” he says, because he’s feeling a tiny bit...not _betrayed_ , but maybe shat all over by life. He _does_ look at her then and shit, he sees the family resemblance alright. But wait. Boyd’s watching the kids of his alpha’s sister, Laura, and he, Erica, and Isaac share an alpha and all know Derek, who’s an alpha, which means—

“Oh my _God_ , you’re Isaac and Boyd and Erica’s _alpha_? Jesus Christ, _why_? I _like_ them.” He thinks about Isaac walking out of the shared bathroom naked this afternoon and amends, “ _Some_ of the time, at least.”

“Wait, which one are you?” Laura asks. “Are you Scott? Because I keep telling Isaac to bring you and Allison over for dinner sometime, but—”

“He’s not Scott,” Derek answers for him and, wow, _douche_. Everything, the tone towards Stiles’ favorite bro, the angry eyebrows, the scary eyes.  _Douchey to the max_.

“Scott’s my stepbrother,” Stiles says. “But we’re close. We share a lot of opinions.” Derek’s look says he knows that a) Scott thinks he’s a tool, and b) Stiles is in complete agreement. _Good_. “Wait, _you’re_ the reason Boyd’s babysitting instead of out with us? Not cool.”

“You know Boyd,” she not-asks, then looks at Derek. “You _know Boyd_. And _Erica_. Okay. _That_ suddenly makes sense.” Well, shit, does she _know_ what Derek does for a living or does she think it’s something else? Either way, Stiles is going to let him take the reins on this one; doesn’t matter how much he doesn’t like the dude, he’s not outing anyone to their family. 

“It’s not like _that_ ,” Derek says. “We don’t _work together_ -work together. And I’m done. This has been a _great_ hour and a half. I’m so glad I missed the first half of _Independence Day_ for this.” 

“TiVo, Derek,” she says automatically, like it’s an old argument. “And wait, so you don’t want to have drunk sex with this lovely young man because you haven’t had _sober_ sex with him? That’s kind of charming. I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I’m vetoing the drunk sex. And the sober sex. All of the sex.” He’s a _little_ weirded-out that she knows, but hell, Scott knew before he joined Stiles in the business, so maybe it’s not _that_ weird? 

“No one’s having any sex,” Derek says. “I would rather keep talking to you.” That’s the kind of thing that would, in, like, ninety-five percent of all circumstances be a nice thing to say, but somehow Derek makes it an insult. 

“Oh, it’s _mutual_ , buddy.”

Yeah, Derek can angry-stare all he wants, but Stiles is _boss_ at staring competitions and he doesn’t like to _lose_. Especially not to people like _him_.

Laura takes a sip of a mojito, looking between them, then clears her throat. “Well, this is all very homoerotic, but I need to go get my dance on. The shots are for you, Buns. You are _so close_ to a normal social interaction, just _believe_.” She winks, pecks him on the cheek, and disappears. It’s almost all worth it for how utterly _unhappy_ Derek looks. 

Stiles looks down at his drink, sees that he has over _half_ of it left, and he needs to be _somewhere else_. 

“I’m really not having sex with you,” Derek says. He grabs a shot and throws it back, follows it up with the second without a pause between. Stiles’ throat almost hurts in sympathy. 

“Good. Same. Not going to happen, big guy.” Derek catches the eye of the bartender, signals for two more shots. 

“Stop staring at me,” Derek snaps. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not even my type.”

“Yeah?” Derek’s got one eyebrow cocked and he looks at Stiles _very_ intensely, and of _course_ he catches the lie. But, to be fair, _hot_ is Stiles’ type. It doesn’t mean anything.

“I don’t fuck werewolves. Or alphas. Too many _issues_ , but you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Stiles snorts and he can see Derek grind his teeth. Maybe he’s going to get murdered, the _ego_. 

“You think I have issues.” It’s not at all phrased like a question, but it’s obvious Derek doesn’t believe it.

“Uh, _yeah_. Because you _do_. The whole toppy, controlling alpha thing? Not healthy, dude, not if you _live_ it. And you look _angry_ during sex. That’s weird, okay? But I’m not going to tell you how to life your life.”

“Really? Because it kind of sounds like you _are_. It’s funny, I don’t remember ever asking for your opinion.” The bartender slides the shots in front of him and Derek just throws them back like a fucking _machine_ because he _is_. He’s a freaking robot and he’s, like, set to _permanent rage_ mode. 

“Good, because I’m out. Find someone else to stroke your ego, dude, that’s not my thing.” Stiles sucks down the rest of his drink, going a little light-headed for a second there, and coughs. “And the worst part is that you’re not even _good_ enough for an ego that big. It’s _sad_.” He’s walking away before he can see the look on Derek’s face and _wow_ , that drink hit him fast. Probably because he should’ve been spacing it out over half an hour, at _least_ , instead of maybe five minutes. _Shit_. 

But he manages to find everyone and he dances his ass off. It’s all club music and colored lights and the people he dances with, and it’s _great_. 

 

Stiles and Scott have an agreement.

If they go out and Stiles is drinking, once he’s drunk, his wallet is to be taken from him. Because when Scott’s drunk, he gives everyone sloppy kisses. When Stiles is drunk, he buys out-of-his-league people drinks. And he doesn’t have money for that. At _all_. 

But it means that when Stiles gets drunk at eleven, he’s effectively cut off. So when they get home around two, he’s maybe not _sober_ , but he’s very much coherent. Enough that he grabs a gatorade from the fridge to prevent any sort of hangover before heading to his bedroom.

He does _not_ pay any attention to his three roommates or the horrible, mentally-scarring noises coming from their room.

Putting on music only helps so much, but he keeps it loud. 

He ends up on his laptop because he’s bored and horny and awake and, hey, if he has a full subscription to a porn site for _free_ , why not use it? 

The homepage always freaks him out a little, though, because it’s a fifty-fifty chance some combination of Scott, Allison, and/or Isaac is on it, and that’s _weird_. And it’s always in the middle, too, because the way it’s set up, in a three by three formation, puts the current most popular videos in the werewolf, werewolf-human, and human sections _right there_ in lines, sorted by straight, lesbian, and gay. And hey, that’s him. Weird. Cool, but weird. 

With his fear of seeing Scott mid-coitus, he never browses werewolf-human porn. _Way_ too risky. Also, horrible nightmares from that one video. He doesn’t ever want to know just how _wolf_ werewolves are. There are certain things he could die happy without ever knowing. 

(On that horrible night, the night they don't speak of, Scott and Isaac had assured him that they didn’t _knot_ or anything, but they’re an omega and a beta, and an alpha is a _very_ different thing. Also, he thinks they might have just been saying that to calm him down. Sometimes they’re full of shit, like that time when Stiles was in the living room and asked Scott, who was in the kitchen, if he’d seen Isaac around. His words said no, but the blowjay Stiles walked in on told a different story.)

It’s a reasonable thing, not perusing the werewolf vids. He’s preserving his sanity. And he’s never wanted to anyway.

He doesn’t want to now, either, but he clicks anyway. Because the top video is fucking _Derek_ , and Stiles is _convinced_ that it’s a fluke. Because there’s _no_ way, if what Stiles saw was in any way indicative of his usual performance, he’s good enough for that. 

Honesty time: it got a little hot there at the end, but mostly in a _this shouldn’t be hot_ way.

It’s a performance review is what it is. A side-effect of doing porn is that he always watches it with a critical eye now, and this is no exception. He’s just scoping out the competition. 

Well, technically, they’re not competing. Not directly. But he’s curious. 

And he doesn’t even judge Derek’s stupid porn name. Probably because his is just as stupid, but hey, if by some miracle, his dad managed to figure out google, the last thing he wants is his dad to google his name and come up on a picture of Stiles blowing a guy or something. _Not_ happening. 

Shit, Derek’s _popular,_ though. Which makes some sense. After all, his body is probably proportionate to the golden ratio or something. He’s got the right amount of muscle, too, enough that people who like muscle will like him, but not so much that people who don’t would be turned off. And he has a nice face. That’s a thing. Even if he looks perpetually grumpy. It’s _handsome_. And everyone likes a little stubble. 

(And, alright, Stiles will admit to himself in the privacy of his own room where no one can hear his thoughts, his dick is _nice_. Not scary in size or anything, but plenty proportionate to his body, and, well, Stiles has seen a lot of penises. They can be a little weird-looking sometimes. But Derek’s is, well, _pretty_. Which makes sense because the rest of him is aesthetic perfection, so he _would_ have a nice dick. The fucker.)

But Stiles only watches a few seconds here and there. Truthfully, he’s afraid of the end. What he _knows for sure_ is that werewolves don’t use condoms because they don’t _need_ to, medically, and jizz is a thing that happens, and it’s possible that it’s a side effect of the no-condoms, but it might also be a weird kinky werewolf thing. Stiles doesn’t want to know for sure.

Derek’s not _that_ hot. Not hot enough to compensate for his personality. 

His view counts say otherwise, but whatever. 

Stiles decides he’s going to go to a different site because this is _stupid_ and he just wants to _get off_ , not sit here and scowl at his laptop. Fuck Derek. Fuck everything.

 

* * *

 

It’s not until a few weeks later, when it’s really getting into that semi-season that California calls autumn, that Derek runs into Stiles again. 

It’s not on purpose. 

Did he perhaps steal a look at Peter’s master schedule? Possibly.

Did he _know_ that his own schedule would be intersecting with Stiles’ ahead of time? Yes.

But he didn’t _do_ anything about it. Did not change his routine in the slightest. 

His _routine_ is to be the best he can be, and if he’s been putting in a little more effort lately, it’s because the second he relaxes, he hears _you’re not even good enough_ , only it’s in Stiles’ voice now. Everyone has a little critical voice in the back of their mind, but the idea is that it’s wrong, right? That it’s just the unwanted child of compulsive perfectionism and low self-esteem, and everyone has it to some degree. 

But it’s different when someone says the same thing in real life. When someone who _doesn’t even know him_ voices his worst fears. 

If Derek’s exhausted, it’s because he’s been in a frenzy lately. He works out all the time. Sometimes, he goes out and finds people to fuck for practice. He studies videos of the greats, acts out his scripts in his apartment, and every time he sits down for a break, Stiles is in his head. 

Well, _fuck_ Stiles because Derek’s at the top of his game and he’s _ready_. 

 

He’s not ready.

There was a bit of miscalculation on his end. 

Derek didn’t possess all of the facts. 

There was at least one serious piece of knowledge that he did not possess before he strolled confidently into Stiles’ shoot.

Stiles is holding the guy’s back to his chest, holding him up, really, as he drives into him in slow, precise strokes.

This is...unexpected. 

One of the guy’s hands scrabbles in Stiles’ hair, the other gripping his arm, and his _face_. Stiles has to be sliding right across his prostate, fuck. 

“You like that?” Stiles asks right in his ear, and Derek just turns the fuck around. He’s out. Nope. He needs somewhere for some quiet reflection so he can just—

He’s not going to jerk off in the dressing room. That’s not professional in the slightest. But if he needs to adjust himself a little, that’s totally normal. It’s not like anyone’s going to walk in, and if they did, well, it’s his _job_ to have a boner. 

Shit, this is not an acceptable situation.

And he can fucking _hear_ it, too. The sound of skin slapping against skin is pretty much ambient noise to him by this point, but he’s thinking about it. Too much. The image of Stiles’ skin, the edges of his hips, the veins in his forearms, his long fingers tweaking a nipple. 

Derek’s about one thin layer of cotton away from jerking off, and that’s _not_ going to happen. He has his headphones with him, so blasts music hard enough to probably damage his eardrums, and he thinks about nature scenes and not at all about his dick. Or Stiles’ dick. Fuck, nope. That’s bad. That’s really bad.

 _Nature_. The woods. Mountains. Clouds. Trees.  

It’s a very long, strange time before he feels like he has himself under control. The fact that he has to  _work_ at it is freaking him out, and that only makes it worse, but he focuses, makes himself still and sure like a stone. He's fine. He's in charge of himself right now.

The doorknob turns and Derek doesn’t jump, just stays perfectly still as the door opens and Stiles comes in with a grin and a towel slung over his shoulder. When he sees Derek, his expression drops abruptly, and that pisses Derek off. 

“Don’t you have somewhere better to be than, like, _anywhere_ in my life?”

 _Say something witty_ , Derek thinks. _Say something psychologically damaging_.

“I didn’t know you top,” is what he says, and he should probably just punch himself in the face right now. Because his private shame is now out in the open and Stiles is going to do something with it. Something that’ll probably make Derek feel like shit and find someone later tonight to go down on just to prove he’s vaguely competent.

“Uh, _yeah_. What? You think just because I’m not built like fucking Chris Hemsworth, I only like it up the ass?” Stiles whistles. “Wow, there are like _four_ offensive things wrapped up in that. I don’t even know what to start with.”

He has a feeling this is going to turn into Stiles reciting a list of things he’s wrong about and he’d rather not exist for that. Or just...be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Very far away.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles says, looking at him like he’s discovering some horrible, ugly secret. “I heard you only top on camera, but I didn’t realize you were that freaky about it. Holy shit. Who _are_ you? You do realize that, for the most part, alpha male is a _metaphor_ , right?”

“So what?” Derek asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s what I’m good at. I don’t need to bottom to be a better top.”

Stiles gapes, eyebrows drawn. “Um, _yeah_ , dude. You _do_. You absolutely do. That’s like...would you want to eat pizza made by someone who’s only ever _seen_ a pizza? _No_. Because it would probably taste really weird and they’d probably use the wrong ingredients. Duh.” 

“Bottoming is not like eating pizza,” Derek says, because _that_ ’s at least something he can be sure of.

“Well, yeah, it’s _better_ , if someone knows what they’re doing,” Stiles says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I mean, I get, like, not being super into the butt stuff, to each his own and all that, but you do _porn_. Jeez, I mean, you _have_ , at some point in your life, tried it with someone, right? An attempt was made?”

Alright, Derek’s life and his choices have _nothing_ to do with Stiles, and he _will not_ be judged because he’s done nothing wrong—

“Holy _shit_. Dude. That explains so much about your personality.” Stiles smacks his own forehead. “It’s not that you _have_ a stick up your ass, it’s that you _need_ one. There are great orgasms that you’re not having. Think about that.”

“I highly doubt that.”

Stiles laughs. “I’m sure you do. It’s okay. You’ve got an ass that won’t quit — I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding someone who’ll show you a real nice time.”

“If I wanted to, maybe. Which I _don’t_ ,” Derek tells him in no uncertain terms.

“Yeah? And why not?”

 _Because people are messy and stupid and can’t be trusted to do what they say_.

But that’s something Stiles doesn’t get to hear because he’ll twist it, make it hurt him somehow, so he keeps it to himself.

“Because it’s not what I do. Now fuck off. You reek, you know that?”

It’s sort of true. Stiles smells like come and lube and latex and sweat, but they’re familiar smells. That’s a basic scent summary of his workplace, after all.

Maybe it’s the self-righteousness.

Probably.

Stiles flips him off when he heads to the shower and Derek get the hell out of there because he’s going to punch something. _Hard_. 

 

In retaliation, or out of spite, he fingers and rims his scene partner until he comes _way_ before his mark. The only person in the room who isn’t pissed about that is probably Boyd, because Boyd generally doesn’t give a shit, but Derek only hates himself more for it. 

Stiles is _wrong_. 

Derek is good at this. He is. He _tries_. 

 _Fuck_ Stiles. 

 

When he gets home, he’s angry, but instead of working out until he can’t think or move, he goes to his computer. 

Does Stiles think he’s some kind of special snowflake? Does he think he’s so _good_ at his job? _Does he think this is a fucking game?_

Because that’s not the case, and Derek’s going to prove it to himself. To everyone. And it’s going to be so easy, what with Stiles’ videos all over the internet. The evidence of his failure is there for everyone to see, and Derek's going to look for himself.

The metal arm of his chair creaks under his grip when he sees that one of Stiles’ videos is on the homepage. 

There’s a stress ball, a gift from _fucking Laura_ , in the pencil cup on his desk, and he grabs it as a distraction. Squeezes. If it actually helps a little, he’s not going to tell anyone. He’s _fine_. And he’s going to be _better_ than fine once he finds just _one_ thing, a single frame, even, where Stiles fucks up.

As it turns out, the only thing worse than angrily browsing porn is angrily browsing porn with a boner. A hate boner. A boner of rage. 

Oh, look, here’s Stiles blowing someone with his stupid fucking mouth.

Here’s Stiles with a hand on his dick and his ridiculous fingers in his hair. 

Here’s Stiles holding himself open for some fucking _asshole_.

Here’s Stiles bouncing on some motherfucker’s dick.

Here’s Stiles with his own fingers in his mouth.

Stiles fucking someone’s face.

Stiles nailing someone until he shoots on his own cheek.

Stiles and his stupid mouth on someone’s neck.

Stiles bruising someone’s hips with his fingertips. 

Coming all over someone’s face.

Winking. Fucking _winking_.

Rimming a guy until he cries.

The stress ball bursts and Derek throws the rubber pieces and just gets up. Deep, calming breaths. _In two three four, out two three four, in two three_ —

“Fuck it,” he spits, reaching into his pants. 

It takes a stroke and a half, but the smell of jizz is quickly overpowered by his self-loathing. 

 

“So I was talking to Laura the other day,” Peter says, sinking into his swivel chair a little as he crosses his ankles on his desk, “and she asked me something very interesting.”

Derek shifts, crosses his arms over his chest. “I can’t think of anything she would have to say that might be interesting.”

“Really?” Peter’s smirk says he’s got something on him, something Derek isn’t going to like when it comes to light. 

“Yes, _really_. I haven’t talked to Laura in a couple weeks.”

“She said that, actually. She said that you haven’t come to dinner. You’re mad at her, apparently. Are you going to tell me why?”

Derek shakes his head. This is going to be ugly.

“That’s fine because she had an idea. A very interesting one. I poked around a little, and do you know what I found?” 

“A way out of this conversation? Because I’d love to hear it.”

Peter _smiles_ , like he’s _excited_. “You’re considering my offer, Derek.”

Oh _fuck_.

Six months ago, Peter called Derek in for a meeting and told him he’d pay double if Derek would do scenes with humans again. Said _the consumers wanted it_. 

Derek had walked the fuck out of his office. 

If he’s bringing it up now, he knows about Stiles. Because Peter knows _everything_ , eventually. And it might be a little paranoid to assume he’d find out, to take it as a given, so Derek will _pretend_ he’s not thinking about how much he’s going to murder everyone who’s ever interacted with both him and Stiles. He’s not going to think anything even _tangentially_ related to Stiles.

“So tell me about Stiles Stilinski,” Peter says, and Derek chokes on spit, seriously _chokes_. Coughing like crazy, actually, and he’d be embarrassed about it even if it weren’t because Peter’s a fucking telepathic asshole.

“I hate you,” he says when he can breathe. His voice is rough. 

Peter bats a hand at him. “Flattery will get you everywhere.” He smirks at Derek’s glare. “I’m on _excellent_ terms with his agent, I assure you, and we could arrange something. I’m told you have a _pressing_ desire to film with him.”

“I don’t. It’s not happening. Laura doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. She’s just pissed at me for being pissed at her. I don’t give a shit about the kid.”

“Oh, but think about the _money_ , Derek. He’s popular. You’re popular. We’ve been looking at expanding our sets, you know. I’m in the process of securing a nice apartment. I’d let you be the first to use it.”

It _would_ be nice to see a fresh place. He’s been on all of the sets so many times he’s getting exhausted of them. But Peter’s just trying to sweeten the pot.

“I won’t do it,” Derek says simply.

Peter’s eyes scrape over his face. “If it would help, I could manufacture some sort of _extenuating financial circumstances_. He would never need to know why you _really_ agreed. And he’s a college student...the second he takes a look at the figure I’m offering, he’ll do it.”

Derek frowns and rubs his face. The worrying thing is that it sounds _good_. 

It’s not so much that Derek’s chomping at the bit to do a scene with Stiles, but there’s a professional appeal. Because he’s _good_ , Derek is at the point where he’ll admit that. That he’s _really_ good, and their video wouldn’t just be good, it would be _fun_. 

If Stiles could manage not to insult him through it.

But he couldn’t. Because he’d have to follow a script. That’s the job. It’s what they do. That’s how it would go: Stiles would pretend to like him—

That’s too far. No, it would be two actors doing a scene, he’s just a little more attracted to Stiles than he is to most people. (Could possibly be an understatement, but he’s not going to think about that.)

“Fine,” Derek agrees. “But give me gambling debts or something.”

Peter grins. “No drugs? You’re not really the gambling type.” He shrugs, reaching for his phone. “Why don’t I give Cora cancer?”

It’s not the most uncomfortable or creepy thing he’s ever said to Derek. Isn’t that the truth of their relationship. Of Peter.

“Yes, Jackson,” Peter says into the receiver. “Send them in.”

Derek jumps. It’s a fucking _ambush_. He should’ve known. Fucking Peter. 

The door opens, and he can hear Stiles says, “Are you _sure_? I could _swear_ I’ve seen photos of you online.”

“Fuck you very much, Stilinski.” 

Ah, Jackson. 

Well. 

If Stiles is already pissed off because he’s been forced to spend time in the same room with Jackson for any length of time, this might not go well. 

 _That_ is not Stiles though. Stiles is not a strawberry blonde in Louboutins. But he might be hiding behind her. 

“ _Miss Martin_. How are you? It’s been such a long—”

“Cut to the chase. You want to adjust his contract now that he’s established himself? Tough break.”

Peter smiles in a very particular way, like he’s _charmed_. “I love it when you’re angry,” he says and Derek gags a little. The _last_ thing he wants to watch is Peter _flirting_.

“You make it so easy,” she says with a sharp look and maneuvers Stiles into the other free chair. Stiles seems to notice Derek and mouths _What’s going on?_ Derek looks down, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stiles get angry.

“So what’s your pitch?” the Martin woman asks. “I have a lunch to get to, so this better not take long.”

Leaning back in his chair, Peter steeples his fingers. “One video, five thousand dollars.”

“What’s the catch?” Stiles asks and his agent shoots him a look before raising a sculpted eyebrow at Peter. 

“If it hits twenty thousand views in the first week, you do two more as part of a series, at your standard rate, and we officially put your contract up for review.”

“And standard back-out rules apply to those two shoots?” Martin asks.

“Well,” Peter says, shrugging, “that wouldn’t be safe for me, financially. I’d have to cut my initial offer in half.”

“Okay, and what’s _he_ doing here?” Stiles asks, jabbing his thumb in Derek’s direction. “If we’re discussing contracts, he shouldn’t be allowed in here.”

Peter chuckles. “My nephew’s a _shareholder_. He owns a third of the company. And besides, we have a bit of a situation on our hands.” 

“What? _Nephew?_ Jesus, your whole family is fucked—” His agent claps a hand over his mouth.

“You have ten seconds before we walk out of here,” she says.

“Then excuse me for being gauche,” he says. “My niece, Derek’s younger sister, has been diagnosed with a critical—”

“He wants you to do a shoot with me,” Derek says. The whole idea of abusing Stiles’ minimal sympathy puts a bitter taste in his mouth, as does using Cora to do it.

“With _you_? Are you _shitting_ me?” Stiles asks. “ _Why_?”

“This last quarter, you were our most popular models. Some of our _other_ more popular models share your, ahem, _representation_ , and I don’t think it’s an assumption on my part to assume that, were you willing to film with them, you would have it in your contract. So I’d like you to consider your future, Stiles. Your popularity will eventually plateau if you don’t expand your repertoire. I’d like to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

“Look at his contract,” Martin says. “ _Humans_. If _he_ were one, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?” 

“Three thousand, with back-out privileges for the other two. That’s three times more than usual, and I do believe the end of the semester is coming up, isn’t it?”

Stiles flinches.

“Like I said, I’d like you to consider your future. Tuition can be _quite_ expensive these days.” Peter thinks he’s won. Derek knows that look. He believes Stiles will agree to it.

Stiles takes a breath. “I’ll do it,” he says. “On one condition: I top.” 

For a moment, Derek doesn’t process that. Can’t wrap his head around it. 

And then he doesn’t _want_ to. 

For one, he and Peter only talk about business in vague terms, and this is toeing a line. Then there’s the fact that Peter doesn’t fucking _blink_ , just looks at Derek for his answer. They’re all looking at Derek, actually, but Stiles has this little smirk. Not like he’s getting off on talking about it so brusquely, no. Like he knows what Derek’s going to say.

“No,” he says. 

Even though it means Stiles wins. Even though it means Stiles is better than him, that he’s won something. And he realizes that it’s not really a _condition_ , it’s a bet, a sure one. Because Stiles _knew_ he wouldn’t agree to it. 

“We’re done here? Because, fuck you, _I_ ’m done,” Derek tells Peter. “And tell Laura to get over herself. I’ve been _busy_.” 

He doesn’t look at anyone, not even Jackson, on his way out. Jabs the _down_ button for the elevator enough to worry about breaking it and jam his hands into his pockets. 

Peter’s office is soundproof, so he can’t hear what’s going on in there, but the doors open again, quick. It doesn’t matter that Derek can recognize him by the sound of his breathing, doesn’t have anything to do with anything.

“Oh, fucking _Christ_ ,” he hears, but it’s quiet. Stiles is probably realizing just what he is: they’re in for one awkward elevator ride. 

The doors open, and Derek wonders if there’s a way to sink into the walls.

Dramatic exits are significantly less effective when you have to share an elevator with one of the people you stormed out on. 

Once inside, Stiles rocks on his heels, facing the doors. Derek stabs the button for the lobby. It’s an upper floor, but he doesn’t remember the elevator ever being this _slow_.

“So,” Stiles says. He doesn’t follow it up with anything. Derek glances at him, and he _looks_ like a college kid. He’s kind of rumpled, wearing sneakers and jeans with ragged hems. _Shit_. 

“What he said—” Derek starts, looking at the scuffing on Stiles’ shoes, thinking about the money he doesn't need in his bank account. “You don’t...If you need money, I mean—”

“What? You’ll gladly _fuck_ me for it?” Stiles snorts. “Not a prostitute, dude. Hate to burst your bubble.”

Derek clenches his fists. “ _Not_ what I meant. And you know what?” Shit, no, he needs to stay under control. “Forget it. I didn’t say anything.” He stares forward, but he feels Stiles’ eyes on him and he seems to be probably the least pissed Derek’s even seen him. 

“It’s okay. I have time. I’ll just do a few live cam sessions. It’s no big deal.”

Derek shrugs. “That’s your business. I don’t care what you do.”

That gets Stiles pissed again, but the doors are opening and he’s _free_ , so he doesn’t have to deal with it. 

It’s not really _running away_. He’s just got somewhere to be. Even if he’s not sure where that is just yet.

 

* * *

 

“Is that a euphemism for something?” Stiles asks into his phone, lounging on the couch. 

“ _No, Stiles. It’s_ actually _a photoshoot. No funny business._ ” Lydia pauses. “ _Well, you’ll probably be naked at some point, but that’s a given.”_

“We’re doing it too,” Scott says, hammering the buttons on his XBox controller. 

“What are we doing?” Allison asks. She’s winning. It always gives Stiles hope that even werewolf reflexes aren’t a match for Allison’s. 

“That photoshoot,” Isaac answers, a little sour because he’s just been killed. “This weekend. Lydia didn’t want to tell him about it until the last minute because of the whole fiasco with Derek.”

Stiles scowls at him. “Is that true?” he asks Lydia. “Because _I_ was fine coming out of that. I can’t say the same for the enemy, but I’m a big boy. I can handle Peter.”

“ _Not well_ ,” she says. “ _You let him get under your skin. And that’s why you pay me the big bucks. Anyway, I didn’t tell you about it because photoshoots are in your contract, so I needed you to cool off a little bit before I told you Derek is going to be there and I need you to play nice. For your own sake_.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’m an _adult_ , you know. I can be mature.”

 

“What’s the matter? I _know_ you’ve seen me in clothes before,” Stiles snaps because Derek’s staring at him. _Intensely_. The state of New Jersey might call it leering. 

Derek rolls his eyes and looks away, _thank God_. It was making Stiles edgy. The whole thing is making Stiles edgy, really. He’s not used to this.

“You look _good_ ,” Erica says. “Relax.” She fixes his collar, opening it a little to show his throat and a bit of chest. “You look hot, actually, and you’re not even my type. Go easy on him. I don’t think he was prepared for the Stilinski Sex Riot.”

The best part is that he _knows_ Derek can hear her, and it’s proven when from across the room, he shouts, “That’s not even _close_ to right!” 

But the thing is, Erica would have heard him if he’d said it under his breath. At this distance, at least. Which means he wants Stiles to hear it. Probably just trying to remind everyone that he’s not attracted to Stiles in the slightest, which is good. It’s not like _Stiles_ is attracted to _him._ Intrigued, maybe, because he thinks it’s fascinating that a person can actually walk and talk so tightly wound. The idea of getting him to just _relax_ has been floating around in his head since he found out Derek’s sad, dirty little secret. But Stiles likes to poke at things with sticks. It’s an instinct.

“Do I really look like a sex riot?” he asks with smirk. Erica tugs her hands through his hair and steps back, takes him in.

“I think that if I weren’t sexually satisfied, I might double-take.” There’s something pointed about it, but he’s not sure _what_ , exactly, it is, so he makes a kissy face and runs off to Scott. 

Danny and Ethan are posing with each other, it looks like, and Stiles throws Danny a wink. He _loves_ working with Ethan, enough that if Stiles had feelings for him, he might be jealous. From what he’s heard, they’re good together. Obviously, if they’re here for the shoot. 

If there’s a single good thing to be said about Peter, it’s that he’s good about pairing actors who have chemistry. Apparently, Scott and Allison hadn’t had _too_ hard a time convincing him that they’d be just as marketable if they were exclusively with each other and Isaac, probably because he’d been pairing them up frequently for _months_ beforehand. 

Does Stiles ever wonder why he doesn’t seem to work with anyone more than a few times? Maybe. Did he ever _ask_? Alright, yes, while drunk, he might have complained about it to Erica, who told him he had chemistry with everyone, but he’s pretty sure that was the I’m-being-nice-because-you’re-drunk-and-I’m-your-friend answer. But it’s not something that keeps him up at night or anything. That would be a silly thing to worry about. 

He’s also not going to worry about the fact that Peter tried to get him to shoot with Derek.

Or how Derek looks in that suit, _God_ , where the hell did _that_ come from? Ugh, his ass looks _great_ in slacks. Of course it fucking does. Because Derek could _actually_ model if he wanted to, and it’s like a law of the universe that everyone Stiles is attracted to has to have something wrong with them. 

Not that Stiles is _attracted_ -attracted to Derek. It’s more jealousy than anything else. And indignation, maybe, that he gets to look like that and be _him_. 

It’s not fucking fair, actually. Guys like him are the exact reason Stiles hesitated before signing up to do partner shoots. Guys who do it because they’re so fucking in love with themselves they assume that people _want_ to watch them have sex. Guys who think that the point of sex is to get off. Guys who don’t realize how much they actually suck in bed, and not in the good way. 

Derek catches him looking, of course, and it’s probably _great_ for his ego. He’s probably going to go jerk off to himself or something equally pathetic. _Ugh_. 

“Alright, who’s next?” Finstock barks, looking around. He lands on someone, points. “You. Get over there.” Stiles snorts when he realizes it’s Jackson.

“I’m not a _model_ ,” Jackson bites out. “I’m Peter’s assistant, you jackass. And I’m _overseeing_. Which means _I_ ’m in charge.” Stiles turns to Scott and mimics Jackson’s sneery face as he goes on to talk about an email or some shit that Stiles doesn’t care about. 

“Is there craft services or something around here?” Danny asks as he and Ethan walk over.

“I think they only have those for successful people,” Isaac says with a frown.

Scott grins. “We’re a _little_ successful. I mean, a couple thousand people have seen our dicks. That’s more than you could say about Tom Cruise.” 

Stiles is about to point out that a porn career does _not_ , in fact, make one more successful than Tom Cruise when he hears his name. Finstock needs him. Stiles lopes over, ready.

“Okay, Stilinski, I want you next to that box there and Hale, you sit on it.” Stiles blinks, noticing Derek. 

“Uh, what?” he asks. “Think you’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t shoot with him.”

Jackson holds up his phone. “Peter says you do today. Suck it up.”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles says, “I’m under contract. I _don’t_.” Derek crosses his arms over his chest and sighs like there’s a million places he’d rather be, which, _rude_. 

“Yeah? Then why don’t you call your agent to come here and defend you. Because this is what the boss wants.” Jackson gives him a nasty look. “You do realize we have a magazine spread coming, right? Time is money. We don’t have time for you to act like a kid who got pushed down the slide at recess.”

Stiles looks at Finstock. “Do another shoot. I’m calling my agent. This is bullshit.”

Yes, a part of him is aware that he’s acting like a diva, but it’s the _principle_ of the thing. Peter won’t take his refusal to do a video with Derek seriously if he does this without protest. 

“ _You better not be calling me from set_ ,” Lydia greets. “ _It’s bad form, Stiles_.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, ignoring the eyes he can feel on him. “Where are you? Think you can punch in Peter’s balls in the next five minutes?”

“ _What’s going on?_ ”

“The photoshoot? He wants me to pose with Derek. Even though we have not and _will never_ shoot together. He’s just fucking with me at this point, and I’m fucking _done_ with his shit.”

“ _Derek or Peter?_ ” Lydia asks, then, too quick for him to answer, continues, “ _Here’s the thing: your contract says you agree to clothing-optional photos of non-sexual acts. It doesn’t specify who with._ ” 

Shit. 

But wait—

“You knew, didn’t you?” he asks. “You knew he was going to do this.”

She sighs, breath crackling into his ear. “ _Yes. He warned me he was doing it. But look— they can’t make you touch him inappropriately or anything. And the only reason Peter wants you to do it is because he thinks it’ll convince you to do a video. So just do it, be polite and professional, and when you refuse again, he’ll be forced to accept defeat._ ”

Tactically, it’s a good idea, and he fucking knows it. But...it’s _Derek_. Ew. 

“Fine,” he tells her. “But you’re getting me drunk tonight so I can forget it ever happened.” 

He hangs up and marches back over. Allison and Scott are shooting, and it looks like Isaac’s about to join one of them in a minute. 

“Is your mommy going to come save you from the big bad wolf?” Jackson sneers. 

“No. I’m fine. We’re continuing as planned.”

Jackson seems surprised. “Oh. So she’s not— Okay.” 

“Alright, get naked while I talk to our resident prima donna!” Finstock yells before waving Stiles over. “What’s happening?”

“Well, I’m starting a [roofie circle](http://arresteddevelopment.wikia.com/wiki/Roofie_circle) tonight,” he answers with a grimace, “and we’re doing the shoot.” 

“Good to hear. Now get out of my sight.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes and backs away. Danny’s talking to Ethan and they look kind of cozy, so he’s not going to interrupt. Isaac seems like he’s about to go on, and Erica’s touching up a woman’s makeup. There’s more than a few people he doesn’t know, mostly women, go figure, because hey, he doesn’t work with any of them. 

Which means that he’s just going to stand here awkwardly. _Great_. 

“If you’re freaking out about the shoot,” Derek says from behind him, making Stiles jump, “then I’ll tell Finstock not to do it.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Stiles bites out because he knows _exactly_ what Derek’s doing. “This isn’t my first rodeo. I don’t need you to _save_ me so you can feel like a hero. Just because I don’t like you doesn’t mean I can’t be professional for two seconds.” 

“Yeah, you made _that_ really obvious, didn’t you?”

“Oh, we’re going there?” Stiles asks, anger making him smile. “So tell me, are you pissed at me because I think you’re scraping by on your looks alone, or are you pissed at me because I won’t bend over for you?”

Derek’s nostrils flare and Stiles can see him trying to control himself. It only makes him want to push harder, wind him up and watch him go. 

“ _Or_ ,” he says, grinning, “are you pissed at me because I can see through your toppy alpha-male bullshit? Because I know it’s not that you’re afraid it’ll mean you’re not in control. You’ve been doing this a long time, and there’s no way you haven’t seen guys dominate with a dick in their ass. No, you’re not afraid of giving someone else some semblance of power over you; you’re afraid you _want_ to.” 

Somehow, he isn’t immediately knocked unconscious. Well, _immediately_. 

Stiles can see Derek actively trying not to punch his face off, one fist slowly rising, shaking like he’s trying to hold it back. There might be smoke coming out of his ears and his face is _red_ , his _eyes_ are red, and Stiles is going to die. 

And then Derek steps around him. 

And just...peaces out. 

 _Well_. 

Stiles watches the door shut behind him, his sense if indignant triumph turning sour. 

This should feel like a victory. He should feel like pumping his fist in the air.

Instead, he kind of feels like an asshole. 

It’s quiet, he notices, and when he looks around, people divert their eyes. 

Holy shit. 

“I’m an _asshole_ ,” he says to himself. 

It looks like Erica kind of agrees with him, going by the purse of her lips and quirk of her brows. 

Shit, he fucked up, didn’t he?

She jabs her finger at the door, and _that_ ’s clear enough. 

Yeah, he’s going to die. 

 _It’s a good a day as any_ , he thinks as he chases after Derek. 

Finding him is really easy, it turns out. He just has to follow the repetitive thudding noise down the hallway.

For a weird second, Stiles wonders if he’s fucking someone, but once he rounds the corner, he sees that Derek’s standing in front of a window. The noise is him banging his head against it. 

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks because he’s really bad at _I’m sorry_. 

Derek stiffens. “Trying not to put my fist through something.”

It says a lot about Stiles’ maturity level that he almost snorts at that.

“Well. You’re...doing a good job?” 

So, this was a really bad idea. He should just go...somewhere else. Anywhere else, actually. The whole in-person apology thing isn’t going to work. Maybe an Edible Arrangement?

“You are...” Derek sighs heavily, fingers clawing the glass. “ _Insufferable_.”

Stiles grins before he realizes that, actually, that’s _not_ a compliment to most people. Obviously, Derek doesn’t mean it as one. 

“I get that?” he offers. 

Derek spins around. “I really don’t think you do.” He grimaces, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you don’t have to do _anything_ with me then. Except take a couple pictures, maybe.” Stiles shrugs. “If it helps, I won’t talk.”

Derek snorts. “You think you can manage that?”

“I can stop myself from releasing any more truth bombs today, yes,” Stiles says and immediately regrets it. 

There’s a high-pitched screech as Derek claws lines into the glass. It looks like he might be planning out Stiles’ murder. Thank God he doesn’t live alone, or he’d be really worried.

“Wow, you _really_ hate me, don’t you?” Stiles asks.

Derek just grits his teeth and that’s _probably_ because he’s trying not to go full werewolf and fuck Stiles’ shit up. 

Actually, that’s...

That’s really nice of him, actually. 

A lot of people, his close friends included, would have _at_ _least_ taken a swing at him by now. And Derek’s not his friend. Derek doesn’t owe him anything, actually. 

There’s a chance, a very small chance, that Derek might not be a completely shit person. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. He won’t say it again, and he won’t pretend to be _friends_ , but maybe he’s gotten a little carried away. Maybe trying to psychologically devastate Derek in front of people he works with was kind of a crappy thing to do. Especially since he might have partially succeeded.

“Finstock’s looking for us,” Derek says. “Come on.” He brushes past Stiles and he seems to be not _completely_ enraged still, considering that he doesn’t body-check him. That could be a good sign. 

He also doesn’t wait for Stiles, so he has to jog to catch up, but _baby steps_.

“Thank God,” Finstock says. “You saved it for the camera.” Stiles doesn’t know what that means really. Well, he might, but it’s stupid and he’s not going to hear it, and he has a job to do anyway. 

It’s a stupid thing, the photo shoot.

They get told how and where to stand and every time Stiles touches him, Derek flinches. It makes him feel sick, curls up inside of him in a bad way, and he doesn’t even realize he’s letting it affect him until Finstock calls him out on it. 

“Stilinski! Put the sour face away. I need you to _smolder_.” He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, mouthing something that looks like _Unbelievable_. “For God’s sake, Derek, no one kicked your puppy! I know you can look like you want to fuck him. You’re an actor! _Act!_ ” 

That doesn’t _really_ help, though, because Stiles can feel Derek get angry, feel him tense up even _more_. When Finstock tells him to sit on Derek’s lap, Derek moves him where he wants him, keeps his hands tight on Stiles’ hips. They’re facing each other and there’s a camera clicking around them, and when Stiles touches his neck, Derek buries his face in his throat.

“ _There_ we go. _Thank_ you.”

Stiles _doesn’t_ roll his eyes, but it’s a close one. But he’s going to do a good job, so when Derek noses at his adam’s apple, he throws his head back. 

It’s a stupid thing to pay attention to, but Derek’s _warm_. His hands are warm when they come around to the small of Stiles’ back and his breath is warm against his collar and his body’s warm when Stiles shifts closer. 

The neck thing is starting to get to be a little too much, because it’s something he usually likes, so he twists out of it and ends up biting on the tip of Derek’s ear. A hand slips through the vent in his suit jacket, right above his belt. If it moves lower, Stiles is out. There’s a line here, and he’s not going to cross it, on principle. 

Even though, when he shuts his eyes, he can pretend it’s not _Derek_. 

The thing about it is that Derek’s, like, 300% muscle. And yes, that muscle could be nice on someone with a different personality, and it kind of feels nice anyway, but what it comes down to is that Derek’s version of sexy is glaring. Stiles has seen it in action. But the over-the-clothes groping that’s starting to happen? That’s not really something he’s seen Derek do before. He’s a get-to-the-point kind of guy. So for a very weird moment, Stiles thinks Derek might _actually_ be attracted to him, and he moves a little, trying to see if he can feel Derek’s dick. Only Derek’s body is basically a wall of hard muscle and it’s freaking hard to tell. 

“We don’t need a lapdance, Stilinski. Take it down a notch,” Finstock says, and Stiles is _not_ going to respond to that. “Now lay down, Jesus.” 

Stiles _does_ roll his eyes at that, then almost falls when Derek lays back unexpectedly. It would be _polite_ to warn a guy, but Derek’s not really the polite type, is he?

“Jacket off,” Finstock orders, and Stiles shrugs it off. “Will someone fix his _sleeves_? He looks like he’s at a high school dance.” Stiles sighs, slumps, and holds out his arms. Erica’s there in a second, smirking like the asshole she is. 

“How you doin’, cutie?” 

“ _Perfectly_ fine,” he tells her, glaring. 

“You’re not funny,” Derek says. He’s looking at Erica, but he seems kind of...at ease? It’s weird. But, well, this is _kind of_ what they do. He’s probably used to lying back while someone else does all the work. 

Erica does his other sleeve, leaning over Derek most of the way, so her face is near his. She _very_ pointedly looks down, and when he rolls his eyes, she does it again, wiggling her nose. _What_? What does that even _mean_? He doesn’t speak Weird Facial Ticks So My Alpha Doesn’t Hear Me Saying Something That’ll Probably Piss Him Off. 

Before she pulls away, she looks down again, and Stiles is just not going to pay attention to it. 

Okay, yes, Derek’s penis is somewhere very near his. _So freaking what_? They’re professionals and it doesn’t mean anything. This isn’t that kind of shoot, and if it was, Stiles wouldn’t be here. So. That’s very clear. 

Finstock tells him to lean over Derek more, so he does. One hand above Derek’s shoulder for support, the other on his chest to look _sexy_. He knows how to curve his body so it’ll look like he’s trying to rub himself off. And he knows where to keep his hips so he’s _just_ below Derek’s crotch but close enough that it’ll look like he’s right there. 

The order to switch positions gets weird for a second. They both go left, then right, and Stiles bites back a smile. After a second, they figure it out and Stiles lays flat, watches as Derek gets into place over him. 

And stays there. 

Derek’s not actually touching him and _really_? If Stiles got over it, so can he. 

It’s uncomfortable and _awkward_ for a moment before Finstock yells at him to get between Stiles’ legs. The position isn’t really one Stiles is particularly interested in because Derek does _not_ need to be reassured of his dominance or whatever bullshit. 

He gets weird about it, though. He hitches Stiles’ legs up, but he doesn’t really _settle_. It’s not like he can’t hold himself up just fine, but Stiles is _sure_ it’s obvious. There’s really only one thing for it.

“For the love of—” he snaps, hauling Derek in by his ass and _oh_. “ _Seriously?_ Are you _fourteen?_ ” The hard line of his dick is wedged in between Stiles’ crotch and thigh and the tips of Derek’s ears are pink.

“ _Shut up_.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Dude. This isn’t prom. I’m not going to stop slow-dancing with you just because I can feel your boner. _Relax_.” 

“Shut _up_ ,” Derek hisses. He rubs his face against the bit of chest peeking out of Stiles’ collar, stubble scraping like he thinks _that_ ’s the way to get back at him. It’s stupid. _Everyone_ gets erections at bad times. Well, everyone with a penis. It’s not something to be ashamed of, and the thing is, it’s literally Stiles’ job to give people boners. To be quite honest, he might have been a little offended if they’d done this whole thing without anyone getting a stiffy. 

It’s a totally normal, to-be-expected thing. 

So when Derek adjusts against him and there’s a little bit interest in his own pants region, it’s totally cool. No one thinks otherwise. 

But Stiles shifts his legs, wraps them around Derek’s waist, and he can tell by the way Derek tenses against him that he _knows_. It’s no surprise when he lifts his face up and _grins_ , slides in Stiles’ hold in a _bad, bad_ way up to his ear. 

“ _Chicken_?” he breathes, very, very quiet, right into Stiles’ ear. The warmth of it makes him shiver and oh, this is going to get ugly.

“ _You’re on_.” 

This is a very bad idea. 

Stiles realizes that probably _before_ the words came out of his mouth, but he’s bad about this kind of thing. If he thinks someone believes he can’t do something, he _will_ prove them wrong. And possibly leave destruction in his wake, alright, it’s a bad thing, he knows that. But he also doesn’t _care_.

It gets ugly fast. 

Derek rocks down, which isn’t quite fair because he has gravity on his side, so Stiles tugs at his hair. Yeah, he likes _that_ , apparently, because he seals his mouth over the corner of Stiles’ jaw, and Stiles can feel the little vibrations of his groan all the way down his neck. _So_ not cool because that’s his _tongue_. Forgive him for being shameless, but Stiles rolls his body against Derek’s for that one. It backfires a little cause it hits him just as hard, but it’s _worth it_. Stiles isn't even sure what the end game is here, but he'd like to see if he can make Derek come in his pants.

There’s this weird, high-pitched sound, and Stiles smacks Derek’s shoulder to call a time-out, figure out what it is. 

It’s a _whistle_ , he realizes when Finstock marches up and tweets at them, red-faced. 

“Save it for the video cameras,” Finstock barks. “You’re done. Get out of my sight before I turn a hose on you.”

Stiles holds back a grin. Really, he’s embarrassed because there are _people_ around, but Derek has better hearing than he does, what with the werewolf senses, so if _he_ didn’t realize, well, that’s kind of great. It feels like winning.

Finstock covers his eyes, rubbing his temples. “Now go walk-of-shame somewhere over there. You’ve got solo shots in an hour, so don’t mess up your clothes.”

Derek gets off of him, and Stiles is glad they have experience walking around normally with boners. Well, actually, he’d like to see Derek struggling. That would be a very nice thing. But oh well.

He goes and sits by Scott, Isaac, and Allison, pointedly _not_ watching Derek go talk to someone he doesn’t know. 

Scott’s got a shit-eating grin, so Stiles whaps his shoulder. Allison’s got this look like she’s not going to say anything but wants Stiles to knows exactly what she _would_ say. That’s fine, whatever, but Isaac wiggles his eyebrows and thrusts his hips in the air, so Stiles pushes his chair away with his foot. 

“Don’t even,” he tells them as he pulls out his phone and shoots Lydia a text.

**Done shooting with Derek. Let Peter know my stance hasn’t changed.**

For a second, he considers asking Scott to talk about his sex life because he’s not quite soft yet, but he wasn’t past the point of no return or anything, so he’ll give it some time before subjecting himself to that. 

And yes, it’s a sad thing, but he looks around for Derek, but the second he spots on him, there’s a pair of hands over his eyes. Female, and since Allison is right next to him, it’s got to be Erica. 

“Can I help you?”

The hands disappear and Erica flicks his nose. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Drinks with Lydia. Many of them. That she will be paying for. Why?”

“Because you should change your plans,” she says. “Come out with me.” There’s a glint in her eyes that he doesn’t like _at all_.

He shakes his head. “Nope. I know you. Not going to happen.”

“Why not? Come _on_. We’ll just go clubbing. A couple drinks, some dancing...and who knows what could happen? You’ll have _fun_. I promise.”

“You haven’t been clubbing in a while,” Scott says, that dirty betrayer. 

“ _No_. I’m going to a wine bar with Lydia. She owes me that much. And _you_ losers need to _stop_. Alright? I’m serious.” He gives everyone his _serious eyes_ , which is, luckily, enough to make them show a shred of guilt. 

They don’t bring up the thing that they’re not bringing up, the thing that’s still in the room, in fact, at all for the rest of the day. It’s a glorious thing. 

He gets through not one but _three_ levels of Candy Crush during Derek’s solo shoot, and he’s absolutely not distracted. It’s not like Stiles has never seen a six-pack before. It’s not like he hasn’t seen _Derek_ ’s six-pack before. So Erica really needs to stop _not looking_ at him like she is. It’s gross. 

Stiles’ shoot goes well, too. It’s boring, to be quite honest, but that’s not surprising. It’s not difficult work, though. Posing is easy, and he’s _way_ beyond having any problem getting naked in front of people. 

But when he strips down, he wonders why his shoot with Derek wasn’t naked. Most of the others went for full nudity, but neither of them was even _shirtless_. That’s weird. That’s really weird. _Maybe_ , and it’s just a tentative maybe, Peter was actually vaguely respecting his boundaries?

No, there’s got to be more to it. 

Whatever. It’s probably not going to bite him in the ass before he has time to prepare for it. 

He’s putting his street clothes back on as Scott’s stripping down.

“Are you heading back home before going out with Lydia?” Scott asks. “Because if you are, you might want to just not look in the living room.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” he says honestly, zipping up his hoodie. 

“Stilinski,” Jackson says, edging towards him, and Stiles gives him an impatient look. “So. You and Lydia. Is that a thing?”

He blinks, frowning. “Wait, me and _Lydia_?”

“She’s out of your league, I know,” Jackson says, “but stranger things have happened.” Oh Lord. That’s just...he’s going to have to tell her about this later. _Oh boy_.

“ _No_ ,” Stiles tells him, “and I’m not going to put in a good word for you. Ask her out yourself.”

Jackson rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t— I was just _wondering_ , Jesus.”

When he walks away, Scott smirks at him, and Stiles tries not to laugh. It’s not appropriate here. But _later_ , a couple glasses in, he and Lydia are going have a _great_ time talking it up. It’ll be a great distraction from all the things he doesn’t want to talk about.

 

“ _Hey, kiddo_ ,” his dad says into the phone several days later. Stiles rotates in his desk chair, phone tucked between his cheek and shoulder.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“ _I just wanted to see how your job was going. At the bookstore_.” 

Stiles winces. “Great, Dad. The pay is so-so, but I have lots of time to study.”

 _“Cut the crap, Stiles._ ” That’s not good. “ _I had the day off today, so I thought I’d drive down to see you for lunch. But guess what? They’d never heard of you_. _Wanna explain?_ ”

Well, not really, but it’s not really a _question_. “It must have been the wrong place?”

“ _Stiles. I didn’t get voted Sheriff just because I have a strong jawline. Just tell me. Is it drugs? Are you selling drugs? Because I know you’re making money_ somehow _._ ”

“No, Jesus, Dad, it’s not _drugs_.” He sighs, fidgets. “I’ve been tutoring people. I know you want me to focus on _my_ studies, but I need the money more. Don’t worry about it. I’m still pushing a 3.8.” He feels bad for lying, but what’s he supposed to say? _Hey, Dad, I’ve been letting people film me fuck dudes_? Lying is a necessary evil. 

“ _Alright. Just don’t sell drugs. It’s a stupid reason to go to prison. Okay?_ ” His dad sighs, and the familiar sound makes Stiles ache. “ _Look, I think I can find someone to co-sign for that loan, if you need it_.” 

“I’m good, Dad,” Stiles says. “ _Trying_ to do this debt-free, and your credit sucks enough already. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

“ _Stiles, it’s three thousand dollars. You can’t just_ take care _of that._ ”

“I’ll sell my study guides. I have classes with over a thousand people. If I sell them for ten bucks a pop, I’ll be fine. Seriously, don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out.”

“ _Are you sure?_ ”

“ _Yes_ , Dad, I’m sure. Don’t worry about it. I’m _fine_.”

“ _Okay. Fine. I trust you._ ” That hurts only a little because he _isn’t_ doing something illegal, but still. Lying. It’s not _pleasant_. 

“See you over break,” he says. 

“ _Say hi to Scott for me_ ,” his dad replies. 

After hanging up, Stiles stares at his computer, sighs. 

If he does a couple extra live cam sessions, he’ll be fine. Might even have a little extra for next semester, depending on how it goes. It’s not _that_ bad, anyway. It might not be as simple as he’d once thought (it had been a let-down when he’d realized that just jerking off like normal doesn’t _actually_ cut it) but he’s gotten decent at it. 

It’s _work_ , though. He does one every other week, usually, and it can be _fun_ , sure, but it’s a bit of effort. 

Whatever. He’ll do one tonight since he has no plans. 

Scott’s in the kitchen, putting some frozen lasagna into the oven. While he sets the timer, Stiles hops onto the counter. 

“Just a heads up, I’m gonna do a live sesh tonight.” It’s polite to warn them, since he and Isaac have superhero hearing. They’re probably going to be screwing around anyway, though. 

“Cool,” Scott says, rooting around in the fridge. “How’s your dad?”

“Good. Says hi. Went to my not-work today. So, you know, still too suspicious for his own good, but whatever.” Scott probably overheard, anyway, but it’s polite to tell him.

“That sucks, man. You know, I have this recurring nightmare of walking into Peter’s office and seeing my mom sitting there. It’s freaky, you know?” He pops the tops off a couple of beers and passes one to him. 

“ _Oh_ yeah.” It’s _terrifying_ , actually, because every call from his dad could be _the call_ , and he gets anxious and twitchy thinking about it. So he just...doesn’t think about it. It’s easier that way. 

 

He’s halfway through the live session when he gets the question.

There’s a box for people who’ve signed in and paid to type him suggestions and whatnot (some of it gets weird, so Stiles doesn’t really do more than glance at it every now and then) and someone’s typed in _ne chance ur boyf can cum in and help u out?_

Stiles actually _laughs_ , which isn’t really sexy, but it’s almost funny how single he is. He’s reached that point with his loneliness. 

“Well, _bigdaddy83_ , if you really want to see him, I guess I can’t say no.” He grabs the dildo from his bed. “Guys, meet Chris Evans.” 

_ur irl boyf. he’s hot. u should blo him._

“I’m gonna be real,” Stiles says, sliding his fingers into himself. “I really don’t have a boyfriend. I have no idea where you’re getting that from.”

Someone _else_ apparently knows what the guy’s talking about because there’s another message.

_where’s the video of you fucking that guy?_

“Well, there’s actually a _few_ of those out there,” Stiles says, grinning. 

 _no. james dong,_ someone else supplies, and Stiles is _lost_. Because that’s Derek’s shitty porn name and _what the fuck_?

_pix r hot but vids r hotter_

“Not gonna be one,” he says, realizing that the pics from the photoshoot must have been released sometime recently. “It’s not my decision, guys.”

_bet ur takin that dick all day slut_

See, this is why Stiles doesn’t read the chat messages. Because _who needs that?_ Seriously. 

So he ignores it and he presses his fingers in deeper, moans. He’s got about five minutes before he can end this, and then he’s going to find those goddamn pictures.

 

Seven minutes later, Stiles is hitting Lydia’s picture on his phone as he brings it to his ear. 

“ _It’s late on a Saturday night. What could you possibly want?_ ” she asks. There’s muffled rap music in the background, a club, it sounds like.

“I need you to help me get rid of a body,” he tells her.

There’s a sharp intake of breath and the music in the background is getting softer. “ _Where are you? What supplies do you have?_ _The most important thing right now is to stay calm. If you panic, you’ll make mistakes, and you’ll get caught._ ”

If he weren’t so fucking _pissed off_ right now, he’d be grinning because she’s a good one, Lydia is. “I haven’t killed him yet. I’m not even dressed, but it’s happening tonight, and I’m going to need your help. You _owe_ me.”

“ _What’s happened?_ ”

“Go on the fucking website and see the stupid, fucking photos. And while you’re doing that, I’m going to track down that cuntpunching cocknugget, I swear to _God_ —”

“ _Stiles. Take a deep breath. Can you do that?_ ” He huffs, but that’s enough. “ _Good. Now I need you to listen very carefully to me: get. over. it. This isn’t personal, Stiles, but you’re treating it like it is. It’s only going to make you unhappy._ ”

“ _Lydia_.” He gestures helplessly at the screen in front of him. “These are _promos_. He’s advertising something that _isn’t even going to happen_. People are asking me these stupid _questions_ , and I did _not_ sign up for this.” 

“ _Look, I have things I could be doing. Attractive, eager-to-please things with good muscle tone. And from what I hear, you’re one fighting match away from screwing Derek_ off _camera, so either call_ him _or wait until tomorrow morning when I can show you the line in your contract that says that you relinquish all usage rights to images taken by one of Peter’s photographers._ ” 

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. Have fun. I’ll talk to you later.” 

Lydia might have been his friend before she was his agent, but sometimes, he forgets. And sometimes, she reminds him that he lives in the stupid, messed-up, unfair world of adulthood, and he’ll always love and hate her for that.

She can be wrong, though. Because he’s definitely _not_ going to fuck Derek. Ever. 

The pictures are right in front of his face and it pisses him off, but, well, they’re _good_ pictures. Who ever picked them out did a good job. The main one, the thorn in Stiles’ side, shows Derek on top of him like they’re melted together. One of his hands is in Derek’s hair, and they managed to catch Stiles grinning, something he doesn’t even remember doing. 

And then there, in the white space above them, the words _When will the suits come off?_

It’s a fucking _teaser_.

He’s got to find out just how far the damage has spread. 

For a second, he wishes that he didn’t know how to do a reverse image search, that he were the kind of person who could let things go, that he lived in an alternate universe where only good things happen. But wishing doesn’t change anything, and mentally, he’s already halfway down this road. 

The image is fucking _everywhere_. It’s all over tumblr and twitter, it’s on people’s _facebooks_ , and it looks like someone’s used it as an e-book cover. 

It’s been on the internet a _week,_ maybe. 

_Jesus._

Someone photoshopped what’s visible of their faces to make them look like _Suits_ characters. It’s _ridiculous_. He’s going to kill Peter.

It _is_ kind of hot, though. 

And people are talking about it, wondering when the (non-existent) video is going to come out, and it looks like they actually have a _following_. Independently, of course, but it seems like that’s changing. People _want_ to see them fuck. A lot, it looks like.

Well, they’re both fairly good-looking, so that makes sense, but it’s still kind of weird. These people don’t even know that Derek’s, like, ninety percent of an asshole. If they knew, it totally wouldn’t be a thing. Or if they heard Derek say, as he has about a _million_ times, that he has zero interest in sleeping with Stiles at all. 

(Probably.)

(Because there was that one boner, but Stiles has had an accidental Scott boner before, so it literally means nothing. It just meant he forgot who Stiles was for a moment.)

Not that it matters anyway because Stiles has zero interest in ever tapping that ever in his entire life. Because werewolf dick. Who even _knows_ what’s going on with that thing? And also alpha impulse control. Stiles does not want to get into things with him and end up a werewolf because of it. Sure, Derek’s pretty good at controlling himself, but there’s still a _chance_. 

(In theory, if Derek were to bottom and maybe wear a mouthguard throughout the whole process, _maybe_. And a gag. So he doesn’t say anything. Because when he speaks, it just pisses Stiles off. But were those conditions all met, Stiles could possibly be convinced by a very persuasive individual.)

The bottom line is that Peter is a horrible person and he needs to be stopped because this is out of control.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: verbal harassment

Derek is tired and, by his usual standards, late. 

He doesn’t have a problem.

It’s not a _problem_ , it’s research. That’s a perfectly viable cause. It’s not a fixation. It’s not unhealthy. 

“You look like shit,” Erica tells him. “I didn’t even know a werewolf _could_ look like shit. What are you even doing to yourself?”

Derek shrugs. He’s not going to tell her because she’ll make assumptions. And the might be the right ones. 

The fact is that he’s been spending a lot of time on the internet lately. By chance, he caught one of Stiles’ live cam shows, and it had been...informative. Derek hasn’t actually done a live show and hasn’t ever really wanted to, hasn’t _needed_ to, but Stiles’ makes him want to. Just to see if he could do it. Because Stiles is _good_. And Derek wants to be that good. 

Well, what he wants is for Stiles to see and to try to watch critically and fail and end up watching Derek’s videos until three in the morning.

Which is not at _all_ what Derek’s been doing for a week and a half. 

(It is.)

It’s not right. Not just that Derek might be a little more _interested_ than he should be, from a professional standpoint, or that it’s probably crossing about five lines for him to jerk off to Stiles as much as he does. Or, hell, just to jerk off as much as he does these days. 

No, it’s not right that every single time he talks to Stiles, he ends the conversation either wanting to commit an act of violence against some inanimate object or to just never leave his apartment again. 

Jesus, there should be pills for this or something.

“You know he’s shooting right now, don’t you?” Erica asks, and _yes_ , Derek knows that. He’s been _pretending_ , very well, by the way, that he isn’t _aware_. And that Peter isn’t doing this on purpose. Because he is. Their shoots should _not_ be like this, but there’s basically a fifty percent chance that when he’s filming, Stiles is going to be too. 

“I’m not going to talk about him.”

It’s good to lay down clear lines. To make sure Erica knows it’s not okay, that he’s not going to talk about Stiles at all. It’s not happening.

“When does he finish?” Derek asks, even though he has a pretty good idea, and that pretty good idea is that he should be done in the next ten minutes. And Derek’s completely blocking out any sound beyond Erica’s breathing so he never has to know _exactly_ when. It’s just not necessary. He's heard Stiles come about a million times over the past couple weeks, and he doesn't need to hear it now.

Derek’s not ready. 

But he’s a grown-ass man and he can deal with being attracted to a horrible, rude, frustratingly accurate assh—

“Why am I not surprised?” Stiles asks. He’s slipping a robe around his shoulders, a bottle of water in one hand.

“I don’t make the schedules.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “That’s not _even_ what I meant. I just think Peter’s doing this on purpose, that’s all. I think he’s trying to torture you. You should probably do something about that.” The weird thing, the _really_ weird thing, is that instead of going to shower, Stiles sits in the chair next to him. It’s...not okay. Because that means that inevitably, they’re going to _talk_ or something, and it won’t be pretty.

“One day, you two are going to say something nice to each other without even realizing it, and the world is going to implode,” Erica says as she gets to work on Derek’s eyebrows.

“I can say something nice to Derek,” Stiles defends, and both Derek and Erica give him a look. 

“Honey, you couldn’t even if you tried. It’s just not in your nature.”

“That’s not true!” Stiles looks between them both. “I’ll have you know I think Derek has many characteristics and qualities that are indicative of who he is as a person.”

“ _Like?_ ” Erica asks, and Derek doesn’t want to hear this. It’s going to be painful for him, that much is certain.

“Like, you know, _things_. That Derek has about him. That are things that he has.” Stiles looks like he’s scraping around his head for something, and really, it’s not _that_ hard. Even Derek can come up with something. “Like hands? I think we can all agree that he has hands.” 

“Actually,” Derek says, annoyed because that’s _sad_ and disappointing and kind of hurtful, alright? “One of them is fake. Bitten off by a seal.”

“Oh, fuck _you_. I made an effort.”

Derek snorts and Erica openly laughs. “Sweetheart, if that’s your definition of an effort, we have a problem.”

“Hey, _he_ can’t do any better!”

“I think you have an impressive work ethic,” Derek says honestly. It’s the least sexual thing he can come up with and probably the least embarrassing. It’s safe, at least.

“Oh, shut up.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “That’s a _euphemism_. It doesn’t count. You’re just saying I like to fuck, which, _newsflash_ , is true for most people.”

“Well, I tried,” Erica says. Derek wishes she were talking about his eyebrows. (She probably _is_ , a little bit.) “You can figure this out on your own.” She walks off and Derek glares at Stiles because it’s at least half his fault. More, probably, but whatever. 

They sit there for a moment and it’s awkward, which Derek doesn’t handle well. 

“How much do you usually make when you do live cam?” he asks because he’s apparently unable to talk about anything other than work. 

Stiles frowns. “Why? Trying to make a little cash?” He shrugs. “Usually about two-fifty, sometimes more, if it’s a good night.”

Derek knows a _little_ about the numbers, and Peter had tried to get him to consider it early on, but he’d promised a hundred, max. That’s...a lot. But not surprising. Derek would pay that much for a private—

Not a good idea to go anywhere near that train of thought.

“It’s not _horrible_ , you know. Kind of boring, actually.” Stiles considers him for a moment. “You know you’d have to do butt stuff, right? If you want to make any money, I mean.” 

Derek shrugs because he’s not _actually_ going to do it, he’s just curious, really—

“I could give you some pointers. If you wanted.”

“Yeah, sure,” Derek finds himself saying.

“Cool, yeah, why don’t you do one tonight so I can check out your solo game. Ten or so? I usually get good turn out around then.”

Derek nods because for some reason, he thinks that’s a way out of this, but he’s digging himself deeper into this weird, weird hole, and wow. That’s not an entendre he wants to make. 

But, well, he and Stiles have a pre-arranged time for when Derek’s going to jerk off on camera for him. That’s...it’s almost a _date_. It might actually be one. Derek hasn’t been on a date since, well, since high school, basically, so he’s not totally sure. But it _sounds_ like a date. This is kind of _exciting_. 

“By the way, did you ever see those pictures Peter put up of us?” Stiles asks. He doesn’t look at Derek, and, well, Derek knows those pictures. He’d been watching Stiles’ live session when he’d found out about them. 

They’re not _that_ bad. Derek kind of likes them, actually. They look _good_. (He might have saved a copy to his computer. It’s _not_ his phone background. Even though Erica sent one to him via text for exactly that purpose.)

“Yeah,” Derek admits. He doesn’t want to talk about it. 

“He’s really pushing it, isn’t he?”

Derek nods. “He was the baby of the family for a long time. He’s used to getting what he wants.” It’s funny, a little bit, because when they’re with family, his mom rags on Peter all the _time_ , but he tries pretty hard to be _authoritative_. Everyone gives him shit for it. 

“That’s so weird,” Stiles says. “That he’s your uncle, I mean. It’s just weird.”

“He didn’t _coerce_ me into doing this, you know,” Derek tells him. “It wasn’t like that. It...it was complicated. But I joined on my own.” Stiles looks like he’s holding something back, but he doesn’t let it go, so it doesn’t matter. Well, it does, but Derek’s not going to let it. 

“Well. I’ll see you tonight, I guess,” Stiles says, then winces. “You know what I mean.”

Derek watches the flight of his eyes for a moment before nodding. 

It’s going to be fine. It’s all going to be fine.

 

Derek’s nervous. 

Sort of.

He doesn’t really _do_ nervous. His version of nervous is _angry_ , and he’s not great at dealing with it. A couple things end up thrown around his room as he tries to figure out what to wear. Even though he’ll be taking it off _anyway_ , so it doesn’t really matter. 

It’s stupid. He feels stupid. 

He did his _hair_.

And Stiles isn’t even going to be _watching_ -watching it. Not for enjoyment. He probably won’t even notice if Derek looks nice. 

It doesn’t matter. He’s doing this.

He lays out everything he needs on the bed, figures out where he’s going to be, and it’s good. Until he realizes that he doesn’t actually have a camera in his bedroom. So he ends up moving his end table so he can relocate his desktop computer, since that’s all he has, and _now_ he’s good. He checks to make sure the camera _works_ , that he’s going to be in the frame, and everything’s ready.

Just two hours to wait. 

In theory, he probably should’ve gotten Stiles’ number. Just so they could coordinate, and maybe if Stiles turned out to be busy, he could let Derek know. Because he won’t know if he’s being stood up, since it’s basically anonymous. (Derek knows that because it had been to his advantage when he was watching Stiles. It’s not weird. Except that it is, and he should feel bad, but he doesn’t.) 

What he _could_ do is call Erica and get Stiles’ number from her. She’d probably _love_ to give it to him. 

No, he’s going to watch television or something. 

Derek’s not good at waiting. It’s just not his thing. Not if it’s for something he’s worried about. And he’s _worried_. 

But he’s _totally_ going to prove to Stiles that he’s good at this. And he might entertain the notion of getting to know his ass a little better. 

It’s not like he’s never _tried_ , because he has, it’s just been a long time and last time wasn’t _pleasant_ because of Kate and the whole situation, so he just stopped having an interest. He could have an interest for Stiles. Well, he _does_ , that’s the truth of the matter, he’d just rather not do it for other people. Something about that’s probably messed up, but it’s how it is.

He calls Erica.

It’s a bad idea, but he does it anyway.

“ _I hope it’s serious because I was getting amazing head two seconds ago and I’d really like to go back to that. So make it fast._ ”

“I need Stiles’ number.” 

There’s silence and _that’s_ a bad sign. “ _Alright. You better call him and get laid, okay? Do it for humanity. Or whatever._ ” Talking to Erica within an hour of her having sex usually results in him being told to get laid.

“Just text it,” he says and hangs up. The text comes a few seconds later, and then he stares at his phone for a while. 

He doesn’t _have_ to talk to Stiles. Doesn’t have to ask him what he’s going to. 

But he kind of does. 

This just isn’t going to work. Not the way Stiles suggested. 

Unfortunately, this means he spends fifteen minutes composing a text message. 

**Got your # from Erica. Sorry. Just thought it might be easier for you to tutor me if you can actually talk back. - Derek**

He throws his phone to the other side of his couch, trying to distance himself from his embarrassment and resolves to get a beer for distraction. Just something to do. 

His phone buzzes before he’s halfway to the kitchen, and maybe he dives for it. 

**Add me on skype. therealbatmanmofo**

There are two problems with this.

1) Derek doesn’t _actually_ have Skype.

2) There’s no tone or emotion to Stiles’ text. Derek doesn’t know if he’s pissed or bored or annoyed. No clue. He could be angry. He might think it’s weird that Derek got his number. He might think the request is stupid.

He’s probably regretting agreeing to this in the first place. 

Derek worries about it as Skype downloads. He worries about it when he goes to get the beer he never got. He worries about it when he goes through the process of signing up for Skype. 

His phone buzzes again, keeps buzzing, and Derek goes to answer it, hoping and dreading that it’s Stiles. It’s not.

“What do you want, Erica?”

“ _Oh, be nice,_ ” she says, a little out of breath. “ _I’m trying to help you out. Now. Are you doing dinner? Drinks? Or just booty-calling it?_ ”

“What are you talking about?”

He can _hear_ her roll her eyes. “ _Derek. Your date. With Stiles. Pro-tip: he likes burgers_ _and fries_.”

“It’s not a date. We’re...He’s helping me with something. Something work-related.” 

“ _Are you talking about what I overheard earlier today? Are you getting naughty for him over webcam? Very 2006. I like it. You should put on Ayo Technology in the background._ ”

He shouldn’t have answered the phone.

“ _You’re still worrying about it, aren’t you? Break anything yet?_ ”

He looks over at his alarm clock to make sure it’s intact. “No. Because I’m not worried. I wasn’t even thinking about it, actually. I was going to take a nap.”

“ _You’re a terrible liar._ ”

“Shut up. It’s not like that. He’s just going to give me a couple tips. That’s all.”

“ _Oh, he’ll give you the tip of_ something _alright. But that’s not_ all _._ ” 

Derek’s going to find a new pack. 

This isn’t fair. They’re all horrible. All of them, but especially her.

“Look, it’s not a sexual thing. It’s professional. Businesslike. Don’t make it into something.”

“ _So what you’re telling me is that he’s going to teach you how to jerk off better and I shouldn’t take that as something sexual? Come on. How many of your co-stars have you done that with?_ ”

“He’s better than them.” That’s really all there is to it. Other than, well, everything else. 

Erica sighs. “ _Well, as much as I’d like to listen to you pretend you’re not talking about your crush,_ I _am going to get some very real, two-person action. So have fun with your not-cybersex_.”

“I hate you,” he tells her, but she’s already hung up.

He feels pathetic sitting around and worrying that Stiles hates him—

Actually, Stiles _does_ hate him. He _knows_ that.

Really, he’s actually probably right around rock bottom in Stiles’ esteem, so it’s fine. It’s very likely that the only place he can go is up. It’s not like Stiles could somehow magically find more hate in him. 

No, he probably could. Derek knows, after twenty-seven years with Laura, that a person should never put a limit on how much they can hate someone. (Or love them, but that’s not relevant.)

But it’s _likely_ that there are very few things he could do to worsen things with Stiles, so really, this is a good thing. Every interaction is a chance to get Stiles to warm up to him. That’s optimism, right? Derek can do optimism. For at least a very short period of time. 

His phone buzzes again and _this_ time, it’s a text from Stiles.

**Bored. You doing anything?**

He wants to do it now. Shit. Fuck. Derek’s not ready, this is _way_ too soon—

No, he was ready half an hour ago. It’s fine. He can do this now. 

 **I’ll skype you** , he sends as he heads to his bedroom. 

Skype? Check.

Camera? Check.

Comfortable surface? Check. 

Lube? Check. 

He’s good. He has everything he needs. It’s going to go _well_ and Stiles might bring his hatred up to a mild dislike. Everything’s under control.

His phone buzzes a new message and when Derek reads it, he sits.

**k.**

A _k_. Not even just a _k_ , a k- _period_. 

This is why you don’t set limits on hatred. Because people will always surprise you. 

Well, it can’t possibly get any worse. That’s comforting, at least. He’s already gotten the _fuck you_ of text messages and he’s been mortally embarrassed in front of 90% of his social sphere, so it’s not like Stiles could do any worse to him. 

He sends the Skype call, _not_ worrying about it, and kicks off his shoes. Why would he need _shoes_? Why would he even put them on? That’s stupid. 

The screen switches to video and Stiles is there. In what looks to be a very soft t-shirt. It looks comfortable, and like it’s been through the wash more than a few times, and—

“Okay, first off, you’re _way_ too classy. Dress it down, dude. You don’t need to impress anyone.” 

Derek looks down at his collared shirt, then back up at Stiles. “It has buttons. How do you do a good strip-tease without buttons.” 

Stiles stares at him for a second, a sort-of frown on his face. “Do you know what a strip-tease is?” He makes it sound like he thinks Derek’s possibly the stupidest person he’s ever talked to in his life, and that’s frankly unfair.

“ _Yes_ , I fucking know what a strip-tease is.”

“No, I mean, are you at all familiar with the purpose of a strip-tease?” Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m serious. Because the point of a strip-tease is to look sexy. To _draw interest_. Now, I say this as a dude-oriented individual: _you_ do not need to do a full strip-tease ever in your entire life. Your abs look like the ones they airbrush on those cheap-ass t-shirts they sell at the beach. It would actually be harder to de-sexy you than to make me get a boner for Finstock. So just don’t bother.”

That’s kind of...not _nice_ , really, but it’s _way_ nicer than he’d ever expect Stiles to be to him. 

“Oh, wipe that look off your face. You’re hot and you know it. And that’s kind of my point: work with your strengths.”

Derek stares at him blankly. _What_ , exactly, is he supposed to do?

“Alright, show me what you got, big guy,” Stiles says, leaning back in his chair, arms slipping behind his head. 

The shirt comes off quick; the button holes aren’t too small, like they are on some shirts. He tosses it over the side of his bed and starts unbuttoning his pants. Stiles leans forward suddenly, a little too fast for what’s apparently a shitty chair because it protests loudly. 

“Wait, okay, no, the buttons are good on the pants. Go with the buttons there. Lead with the abs, then go for the buttons. Jesus, where do you even _get_ jeans like that?”

Derek shrugs because he doesn’t remember, but he’ll check the tag later. He works on the second button. They’re a little tricky. The denim isn’t very forgiving. 

“Get a _little_ closer,” Stiles tells him, and Derek takes a small step forwards. “Good. Right there.” Derek keeps going, and because Stiles said to ditch the whole strip-tease idea, he doesn’t do anything but unbutton. It doesn’t take long. 

The jeans are a little tight, but he manages to shove them down past his briefs. They’re nice ones, but then, all of Derek’s underwear are nice. Sometimes he gets them for free, even, because some companies like to advertise through porn. Otherwise, he probably wouldn’t have any _this_ expensive. 

“Alright, keep going.”

“Pretty sure there’s no sexy way to get them off any more than this.” 

Stiles leans forward, squinting. “Are they seriously that tight? Shit, I thought it was the pixel ratio. Okay, well, your homework is to figure out how to get those off without lubing your legs first.” Derek rolls his eyes and bends over, tugs them down. It’s the thighs, really. They’re fine on his calves and knees, but they cling to his thighs. It _looks_ fine, but they can be tricky to get on and off. 

But then he’s standing there in his underwear, waiting for direction. 

“Don’t take those off,” Stiles says. “But touch yourself. They like to see you hard before the undies come off.”

He figures it’s time to make it look hot, so he runs a hand over his stomach, drifting down a little. In the little mirror window, he can tell his shoulders and up aren’t in the shot, so he looks at Stiles for this. Finds a nipple and just brushes his thumb over it. 

His body is starting to take an interest. His pulse beats in his groin, and when he slides his hand down to the front of his briefs, he can feel it thrumming in his hand. 

Stiles’ mouth is open, like it is far too often. It helps. When he pinches his nipple, Stiles inhales, probably too soft for a human to have heard. It’s probably empathy more than anything else, but he pretends Stiles is enjoying it when he squeezes his cock. A gentle flush of pleasure spreads up to his chest. 

Maybe it’s inappropriate, but he stares at Stiles’ open mouth as he rubs along the length of his dick and yeah, he’s good. Mission: accomplished. 

Sure, he knows that this is the part where he pulls his underwear down and gets busy, but he waits, fingers teasing above his waistband, for Stiles to tell him what to do. He doesn’t even know he _will_ , but he kind of hopes he will. 

“You’re hard, aren’t you? I can tell.” Stiles sucks in a breath. “Why don’t you get on the bed?” It’s not too far back, and he finds it by touch, sits. “Alright, lay back. Feet on the floor. Push your underwear down to your knees, then go one leg at a time.” 

Derek does as he’s told, cock slapping against his stomach as he lifts his hips to shimmy his briefs down. He slips one leg out, not caring about the other as his briefs fall down around his ankle. His legs have a little distance between them. Not enough that it’s like he’s showing anything off, but a little wider than normal.

“That’s good. Now, you get paid by the minute, so the goal is to go slow. So don’t just jump in. But do what you normally do. Or what you do when you have some nice time to yourself, enough for a little one-man foreplay.”

Derek nods. There’s a drop or two of precome at his slit, he can feel it, so he rubs it away with his thumb. It’s sticky, but it smears between his fingers easy and he pinches his neglected nipple. Nice and gentle because he's sensitive. Just needs a little something. 

The other hand moves down to cup his balls, massage them a little in his hand. His dick pulses against his stomach, reverberating down to his toes. 

Knowing that Stiles is _watching_ him, hearing him breathing, it’s a little hotter than he can handle at this pace. He goes for the base of his cock with a tight grip, only stroking the lower half. It’s too soon for the lube, he thinks, but when he moves up, pushing up his foreskin, he hums with it and decides, _fuck it_. He lets go of his balls to grab the lube. 

He holds his dick up with one hand and squirts the lube onto it with the other. It slides down the underside, over his fingers. He strokes, twists, smears it around. The slickness is good, stops his breath in his throat a little.

Stiles inhales sharply when he thrusts up into his fist. It’s stupid that he’s not here, that Derek can’t smell him in the room or time his strokes to Stiles’ heartbeat. 

 _Fuck_ , but he needs Stiles here right now. 

“That’s— shit.” 

Derek looks, and from where he is, Stiles is _right_ above the head of his dick, and damn, if that doesn’t make Derek jerk into his grip. 

“I know you don’t...but butt stuff helps. People like it. I’m not trying to force you, and you don’t have to if you don’t want to, I’m just saying. I know how to do it pretty well. I could help you. I mean, not _help_ you, since I’m not there, but...”

“Talk me through it?” he asks, not sure if that’s shameless.

“Oh God, yeah, here, lemme just—” He moves around and it’s clunky and Derek has _no_ idea what’s going on. “We’re good. Alright. You’re going to need to bend a leg.” 

Derek brings his right leg to the bed, and he _knows_ Stiles is getting a view very, very few other people have seen. It’s a weird feeling, but it feels...safe. For reasons he doesn’t understand. 

“Okay, get a finger nice and wet. Now, I don’t want you trying anything crazy. I know you’re a big scary wolf-man, but don’t try to shove half your hand up there to prove something. Be gentle. Friendly. Just introduce yourself.”

That’s simple enough. He can do that. Biting his lip, Derek slips his left hand down to just brush a finger over his hole. His body jumps a little at the contact.

“Yeah, that’s good. Real gentle,” Stiles says. Derek’s middle finger grazes his hole again, more firmly. “Good. Now breathe. You’re really tense. I mean, you always are, but I’m not there so I can’t distract you. But breathe. Jerk yourself off a little, nice and slow.” 

It’s hard to focus on breathing, actually, but he shuts his eyes, forces himself to.

_In..._

_Out..._

He thinks about the air filling his lungs, about sinking deeper into the mattress. When he feels _settled_ , he gives himself a good, slow stroke, pushing his foreskin over the head of his cock, then all the way back down in time with his breathing. 

“That’s perfect,” Stiles breathes, and something in him warms at the praise. “Good. Feel yourself. Don’t _push_ , just add a little bit of pressure.”

Derek does, just rubs a little, and it feels _good_. Well, it’s not like he’s never touched his asshole in his life, but not like _this_. 

His finger slips in without warning, really, all the way to the second knuckle before he clenches around it. 

He gasps. “ _Fuck_ , I—”

“I know. I know. Keep breathing, okay? You’re doing great. You look great.” Shit, Derek must be _gone_ for that to make him feel the way he does. It’s _bad_. He’s always had a need to please, but this is something else. 

He wiggles his finger a little. Takes a deep breath. Tries again. 

“Touch yourself, Derek,” Stiles tells him, his voice a little rough. “I can’t do it for you, I’m not there.”

“If you were?” 

That’s stupid. He shouldn’t be allowed to talk. It wouldn’t fucking matter if he were here. 

Stiles draws in a loud breath. “I would take you in my mouth. I would suck you down so hard you wouldn’t be able to _think_. Those fingers would be mine. You wouldn’t even realize they were in you until you were fucking yourself on them.” 

Derek lets go of his cock to bite his hand, hold back a telling noise. It’s a little too soon, going by the little ache, but he presses a second finger into himself. 

“I would make you ride my hand, you know. If you wanted it — and you _do_ , just _look_ at you — you’d have to work for it.”

With a small noise, he shoves back onto his hand. It’s a weird, good feeling, sort of like coming alive. 

“ _God_ , you look so good. Touch yourself.” Stiles’ voice is a little breathy, and Derek shakes his head, teeth just loose enough to not draw blood. “Come on, Derek. Touch yourself. I wanna see you come.”

Fuck, that does it. He grabs his dick, rolling his hips to get a rhythm between that and the hand in his ass. 

“I can’t. Sti—” He bites his lip, but the pain doesn’t hurt the same this close to orgasm. 

“You can. Come on. You can do it, you can fucking—” Stiles cuts off with something like a moan, and it’s the belief that he just got off that makes Derek come. It’s a _hard_ orgasm, rips something out of him, blinding and real. It shakes him. His ass tightens around his fingers as he pulls the last few pulses from his cock. 

After, he just lays there for a minute. 

It’s probably the most satisfying jerk he’s ever had. By and large. The muscles in his thighs are trembling and his dick gives the odd twitch on his stomach. He’s at a weird angle, so he draws his hand out and wipes it on the bedspread because he doesn’t even care. He’s behind on laundry anyway.

“You okay there, big guy?” Stiles sounds unaffected, and it twists a little, below Derek’s ribs.

“Yeah, just gimme— _Yeah_.” Derek sits up, looks down at himself. Yeah, he needs a tissue or something. 

Stiles makes a weird noise. “You...your beard. Stubble. _Whatever_. You have jizz in it.” Derek feels his face, finds it at his chin. Grimacing, he wipes it away. Well, at least it didn’t dry. _That_ would have been gross. 

“Thanks,” Derek says, wanting to be talking about the minor save there. 

“No, don’t— It’s nothing. I don’t mind. Felt kind of like a humanitarian effort, actually.” He shrugs, mouth a little redder than when they’d started, but that’s all that’s to show for it. “No, but I should go. I told Scott, Allison, and Isaac to have a late dinner. They probably want to come home. _And_ I think they’re bringing me takeout.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Derek tells him. “Do whatever. Eat. Go.”

“Yeah.”

They stare at each other for a moment, waiting for the other to kill the feed. It’s fucking stupid is what it is and Derek wants to _die_. The second he cuts the call, he falls over and buries his face in his bedspread. 

This is the worst. Absolute worst. Terrible idea. Terrible fucking idea. 

Fuck, but it was _good_.

From now on, he needs Stiles around every time he masturbates. Always.

Or they could just have sex.

 _Which_ isn’t going to happen because Stiles doesn’t _want_ to. He probably hadn’t even gotten hard from that. Fuck, it’s the worst. Because now he’s going to ruin himself with it. He’s going to think of Stiles talking to him every time he jerks off. Which is actually barely different from what he’s already doing.

Derek is just going to die. That’s all. He’s just going to be done with it all.

Hopefully _soon_.

 

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, and he can feel Laura’s glee through the phone.

“ _Good! Elaine is making lasagna.”_

“You know, I can never tell if you married her for her cooking or not.”

 _“Shut up. Anyway, Cora said she’d come._ ”

“Peter?”

“ _Nope. He’s out wining and dining tonight. I didn’t think you wanted to see him._ ”

Sometimes, Derek forgets that he loves his older sister. Sometimes, like now, he remembers. She’s not the _worst_. She’s just...Laura. 

“I’ll see you tonight, then.”

“ _Love you, Buns_.”

He sighs, picking at a faux-distressed hole in his jeans with a smile. “Yeah. Love you, too.”

It won’t be _that_ bad. She’d apologized, at least. A bit late, sure, but she’s not really the apologetic sort. She’ll try to stay on his good side for tonight, at least. It’ll be fine. And he misses Elaine’s lasagna anyway. It’s been too long, and usually she packs some tupperware for him. Actually, most of their tupperware has probably migrated to his cupboards, but whatever. 

It’ll be worth it. 

 

River attacks him as soon as the door’s open, and Derek scoops her up into his arms.

“She’s been asking about you all afternoon,” Laura tells him. He barely hears her over a chorus of _Uncle Derek!_ ’s. River’s latched onto him like a remora, and Derek suddenly feels like a _horrible_ person for this whole petty thing with Laura. 

“Where’s Max?” Derek asks, trying to ease himself out of River’s chokehold. He sets her on the ground.

“Where do you think?” His room, then, probably reading. He’s _always_ reading.

River yanks at the hem of his shirt. “Uncle Derek, why haven’t you come over to play? No one else plays Spaceship right.” 

“It was because of a _boy_ ,” Laura stage-whispers.

River’s face wrinkles. “That’s stupid. Boys are stupid.” 

“Hey, don’t use that word,” Laura scolds, rolling her eyes at Derek. “She’s been getting _defiant_ lately.” He picks River up, settles her on his shoulders. She tugs at his hair. Laura shakes her head and heads down the hall.

“I don’t like boys,” she says matter-of-factly. “They’re smelly and gross.”

Derek looks up at her. “Well, I’m a boy. Am _I_ smelly and gross?”

She laughs. “You’re not a _boy_ , silly,” she tells him. “You’re a _spaceship_.”

“ _That’s_ right. How silly of me. I can’t believe I forgot.” 

She giggles and pats his head as he follows Laura into the dining room. There’s a few more plates out than he’d expected. In the living room, Cora and Elaine are sitting with glasses of wine. They both get up when he comes. 

“Been a while, stranger,” Elaine says, kissing him on the cheek.

“Hey, loser,” Cora greets. Derek sticks his tongue out at her, then picks River up off his shoulders and sets her on the floor. 

“Are we gonna play Spaceship?” River asks. 

Elaine pats her head, saying, “Why don’t you go get on your PJs? Then Derek will play with you.” River pouts, crosses her arms, and stomps off. When she reaches the doorway, she stops, looks over her shoulder, and huffs at them. Laura snorts. 

“Spaceship captains _love_ to put on their PJs,” Laura tells her, and River scurries off. “Boyd and Erica should be here soon,” she says to Derek. “Isaac, too.”

“I call first dibs on leftovers, then.”

Cora rolls her eyes. “You eat like a teenage boy.”

“At least I don’t fight like one,” he says.

“Hey! I won all of my fights last month, _thank you very much_. I could’ve kicked _your_ scrawny teenage ass anyway. In fact, I _distinctly_ remember it.” He smirks because they’re _never_ going to let her last fight go. “Jesus, you go for the dick _one time_ and no one lets it rest.”

“That’s the curse of the internet,” Laura says seriously.

“Look, I can’t help that someone put it on youtube. Sometimes these things just happen.”

“It _was_ pretty good,” Elaine admits. 

The doorbell rings. 

“I got it, don’t worry,” Laura says, scrambling off. Derek takes a seat, heaves a long sigh. Smiling a little, Elaine pats his knee. 

For a moment, he doesn’t register it at first, but he’s up on his feet before the four new additions are in the room. 

“ _Laura_ ,” he hisses. She herds Scott, Allison, Isaac, and Stiles into the room, and Derek’s going to _kill_ her. 

“Don’t even start,” she says. “You _know_ it’s about time Isaac brings them over, and don’t tell me you’d get between a college student and a homemade meal. That’s just cruel, Derek.” Stiles scratches the back of his neck, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. It’s not fair, to either of them, really, and the truth of the matter is that Derek hasn’t seen or had any contact with Stiles since _that night_. 

Not that he hasn’t _wanted_ to. But it’s only been a couple days, and he hasn’t had another shoot, another way to see Stiles again. It’s not like he could just _call_ him or something.

“It’s fine,” Derek says. “You just didn’t _tell_ me.”

“You said you _told_ him,” Isaac says to Laura. “That’s not fair, you know.”

“Is it _so_ wrong that I wanted everyone to try to get along?”

The room feels guilty, which means Laura’s using her evil skills, but Derek’s not going to make it weird. They’re just two people. Two totally normal people with a totally normal relationship. 

“So _you_ ’re Stiles,” Cora says, leaning over the back of the couch. _That_ ’s not good because Cora, well, Cora doesn’t like people. And not the way Derek doesn’t like people. She just genuinely dislikes most people, _especially_ people who aren’t family. It took her a _year_ to get over hating Elaine. And Elaine is _nice_. Stiles is not nice. 

No, this isn’t going to go well at all. 

He hears River running down the stairs, and when she charges into the room in her Captain America pajamas, the tension drops for a moment. 

But then she stops. 

“Why are there boys here?” 

Derek coughs to hide a smirk as Laura says, “Isaac just brought his friends, sweetie. This is Scott and Allison and Stiles.” River evaluates them for a long moment. 

“She’s pretty. I like her, but the boys can leave.” She walks up to Allison. “You can be the princess. That means you get to wear the crown and ride on the spaceship with me.” Derek snorts and she looks at him. “Yeah, I think he’s big enough.” Isaac’s grinning and Cora’s laughing into her arm, and everyone else looks like they have no idea what to think. Good thing, too, because Scott and Stiles are never going to know.

Allison crouches down. “Do we get to have adventures?” she asks, smiling. 

“Yeah!” River says, lighting up. “We get to zoom around space and fight the evil aliens and save the world! Can you do any cool stuff?”

“Well,” Allison says, “I can shoot a bow.”

“Awesome!” She seems to realize something, frowning. “You can’t be the princess then. The one with the bow has to go on top of buildings and stuff. But you do get to _fight_ the princess, I guess. That’s pretty cool.” 

Stiles starts laughing. Hard, too, bent over Scott’s shoulder, and for a second, Derek’s distracted by the heaving of his shoulders. 

River marches in front of Stiles and pokes his belly. Laura scolds her, but River’s already asking, “Why are you laughing?”

Stiles stops and looks down. “You’re...you like the Avengers?”

“Yeah.” She eyes him suspiciously. “You can be Loki.” That gets Stiles laughing again, and River apparently knows when she’s being laughed at because she kicks him in the shin. It doesn’t make him stop, but Laura grabs her before she can inflict any further damage.

“Hey. No hitting,” Laura tells her.

“I _didn’t_ ,” River protests. “I just kicked him.”

“That counts. Come on. Let’s get you to bed, young lady.”

River puts her hands on her hips. “I don’t _want_ to go to bed. I want to stay with Uncle Derek.”

“But then you’d have to stay and have dinner with us. It’s going to be all grown-up talk. _Boring_.” River _hmph_ s. Derek’s seen this stand-off before a million times and it always makes him at once sad and happy he doesn’t have kids. 

“Fine. I’ll go to bed,” she says with an expression that’s so Laura it hurts. “But only if Spaceship Derek will take me.” 

Stiles, who’d quieted, starts laughing anew and Derek’s going to _kill_ him. 

“What do you say, Spaceship Derek?” Laura asks. Damn her. 

River looks at him with big blue eyes. At some point, she’d perfected the puppy eyes and it’s _evil_. Pure, unadulterated evil. He sees the same look in Laura and knows that, yes, he’s going to have to do this, and yes, it’s going to be possibly mortifying, but, well, _kids_. Surely there’s an embarrassment free pass for kids. 

He sighs. “How could I say no?” 

River bounces and runs to him, and Derek crouches down so she can climb onto his back. 

When her arms lock around his neck, he asks her, “How are our systems, Captain?”

“All systems _go!_ ”

“Get ready for takeoff in five...” She joins him in the countdown because it’s _almost_ her favorite part. “Four...three...two... _one!_ ” 

He makes spaceship noises (it’s an art, alright?) and zooms around the room, out the doorway, up the stairs, all the way to her room. 

“Time for the landing sequence,” he says when they get to her bed. Disentangling himself from her is always an effort, but he gets her in bed, all tucked in.

“You’re a good spaceship,” River tells him. 

“Thanks.” 

She wiggles down deeper under her covers, blinking heavily. “Goodnight, Captain,” he tells her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

“Nighty night.” She kisses her palm and lays it on his cheek before turning over to sleep. Derek smiles, making sure her night light is on before shutting the door behind him. 

He’s just going to act like he’s living in an alternate world where he didn’t pretend to be a spaceship in front of Stiles. That’s how this is going to go.

 

Everyone’s moving into the dining room when he gets downstairs. Erica comes up to him and kisses his cheek. Boyd gives him a nod, not really the most expressive of his pack, but he and Derek understand each other probably better than most. He’s going to sit by _them_ , he decides, because Erica’s safe because he knows how she works. So he sits himself between her and Elaine and pours himself a very full glass of wine. 

Of course, with the way things go in his life, he’s across from Stiles. That’s okay, he can just avoid eye contact for the entire meal. Though there _is_ a basket of breadsticks between them, which might make that difficult. 

Stiles, Scott, and Allison, who have never had Elaine’s lasagna, seem a little shocked when everyone starts fighting over the two casserole dishes, but they’ll understand soon enough. 

Unfortunately, Mom taught everyone manners, so even though they have choice slices on their plates, they don’t eat until everyone’s been served. Stiles is last because he hadn’t been _nearly_ aggressive enough, but really, every slice is a good slice. 

The second he gets his on his plate, those who _understand_ dive in. 

Alright, Derek is never fighting with Laura again. Unless he can stop by when she’s not here and beg some lasagna off of Elaine. Because _this_ is worth everything.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles says. “ _This_ is it! Holy crap, I’ve been searching for this lasagna for, like, a _year_.”

“ _You_ ,” Isaac says, suddenly murderous. “ _You_ were the lasagna thief of 2012. You _heathen_.” 

“Dude, it was _forever_ ago,” Stiles argues, and Isaac is not impressed. 

“You ate his lasagna? That’s pretty harsh,” Erica says. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “It was at the back of the fridge. I thought it was bad, but I checked and it _wasn’t_ and I was _hungry_ , okay? I didn’t realize that it was sacred. Until I tried it, that is.” He takes a big bite, shutting his eyes.

“Well, I’m going to take your roommate strife as a compliment,” Elaine says, smiling. 

“You should.” Stiles’ mouth is full, and it should be pretty gross, but it’s more _weird_. Because Stiles is talking with his mouth full at Laura’s table like it’s a normal thing. There’s something bizarre and overwhelming and nice about that. 

Stiles sticks his tongue out at Derek, and he realizes that he’s been staring. Shit. Hopefully no one else noticed. 

It looks like everyone’s paying more attention to eating than anything else. It’s not long before they’re scraping sauce out of the two empty casserole dishes and fighting over breadsticks. 

“So, do you guys do porn too?” Cora asks when there’s no more food on the table. Stiles flinches.

“Yeah,” Scott answers, “but we all go to school together. And Stiles and I are stepbrothers, so we go way back.” Derek did _not_ know that. He _does_ know that Scott doesn’t like him, probably because Derek kind of sucks at being an alpha, fuck you very much, Laura, for disappearing to Alaska for two years to basically shirk the responsibility. And thank you, _Mom_ , for deciding to retire when he graduated high school and making Laura alpha in the first place.

His family is the worst.

And maybe he loves them a little. But only a little.

“Isn’t that kind of weird?” Cora asks. “That you’re shooting porn with your stepbrother?”

“Oh, _we_ don’t,” Stiles says quickly. “Scott and I have boundaries. That’s a big one. Best friends and all that. He’s not my type anyway.”

“What _is_ your type?” Laura asks, and Stiles narrows his eyes. 

“I’m not sure I’d like what you’d do with that information,” he says after a second. It’s a fair point and probably a good thing, but Derek kind of wants to know. A lot. Laura does, too, apparently, because she’s trying to stare Stiles down. 

Elaine sighs loudly. “Leave him _alone_.” She nudges Laura with her foot under the table. Laura looks at her sulkily, backing off.

“Okay, but seriously,” Cora says. “Why _aren’t_ you sleeping with Derek?” Stiles chokes and Derek breaks his wine glass, cutting up his palm. Elaine passes him a paper napkin before he can bleed all over the table, and he focuses on the sting instead of how hot he feels, how he must be bright red. 

“ _That_ was blunt,” Stiles says, looking down at the table. “And also none of your business, for the record.”

“Are we _seriously_ going to do this?” Derek asks. “For future reference, it’s not going to happen and it has _nothing_ to do with any of you. And if you seriously got us both here to talk about it, then I’m leaving.” He looks at Laura, at Cora, at Erica, and when he smirks, at Isaac, and tries to make them understand how fucking _stupid_ it is that they’re doing this. 

“Where’s the bathroom?” Stiles asks, looking at Elaine because he’s at least _smart_.

“Down the hall,” she says, pointing. “Just past the stairs.”

He goes and Derek fumes because he’s _escaping_ and it’s not fair. Jesus, it’s not fair that he gets to run away and Derek’s stuck with them all. 

It’s silent until they hear the door close, then Laura leans forward. “ _Seriously_ , Derek, this is _stupid_.” Her voice is low, low enough that Stiles would in no way be able to hear. 

“It kind of is, though,” Isaac says, and it doesn’t look like Scott or Allison is exactly _disagreeing_. 

“What is this?” he asks because this feels _planned_ in a horrible, horrible way. “Is this an _intervention_?” He thought they were _done_ with interventions. It’s been years since the last one.

“You _need_ one,” Cora tells him. 

“Are you _serious_?” He looks around. “Is anyone here not unhealthily invested in Stiles and I sleeping together?” Elaine looks down and he is going to _kill everyone_. 

“Hey, at least Peter is the only one who wants to film it,” Laura says.

Derek stares at her, eyes wide. “At least that makes _sense_. He has economic reasons. What excuse do any of _you_ have?”

“We love you, Derek,” Elaine says. 

“Or Stiles. Some of us are here for Stiles,” Scott says. “Let’s just be clear on that.”

Laura reaches across the table to touch his hand. “You work a lot and there’s nothing wrong with that, but we’re worried you’ve given up. When was the last time you slept with anyone, Derek?” He’s distracted from answering for a second because his phone buzzes in his pocket, announcing a new text. He opens it under the table.

“ _Today_ ,” Derek tells her. He glances down at the text.

**IF YOU LEAVE TAKE ME WITH YOU. DON’T LEAVE ME WITH THEM.**

“Not for _work_ ,” Cora says, “but, like, actually met someone and taken them home?”

The problem is that he _hasn’t_ taken anyone home. He’s fucked people in bathrooms and whatnot (he _knows_ it’s not classy) but he hasn’t had someone else in his apartment in...a while. And if he _lies_ , they’ll all know. 

“It doesn’t matter. And that has nothing to do with anything. I’m _not_ sleeping with him.”

His phone buzzes again: **let me know when it’s okay to come out**

Laura makes an exasperated noise. “Why not? He’s good-looking, he likes men, you’re attracted to each other. Don’t you like him?” Derek rubs his face, trying to cover up the heat in his face.

“Don’t make it _weird_.”

It’s suddenly very quiet so he looks up. 

 _Shit_.

“Wait, do you _like_ him?” Scott asks. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Derek tells him with a dry look he doesn’t feel.

Cora leans over Erica and smacks his arm. “Then what’s the problem, loser? Just get it out of your system, then. Fuck it out, move on with your life.” 

Erica seems like she’s tired of holding back and turns the full force of a calculating look on him. “ _Why_ haven’t you already? What’s the hang-up?”

“Why are we assuming that it’s all my fault?” Derek asks.

“Because it probably is,” Cora answers quickly.

Laura leans forward. “Wait, is it _not_ your fault?” she asks like it’s something she’s never considered. “You’re not the one with the hang-up?”

“He doesn’t want to.”

Scott snorts. “Dude, Stiles grew up watching TV. He thinks arguing is foreplay. He’s always horny after talking to you. It’s gross.”

“What, you think I wouldn’t be able to tell if Stiles was interested?” Derek asks. “ _Trust me_ , he’s not. It’s not on the table.”

“Um, _yeah,_ it is,” Erica says, giving him a look. “You’re just being weird about it.”

“Peter told me,” Laura says. “Why you won’t. And I want to state for the record that it’s offensive and stupid.” Of _course_ Peter told her. Because he tells her everything. Jesus.

Elaine elbows her. “Unless you’re not comfortable with it, in which case, it’s understandable and _everyone’s going to lay off forever._ ”

“What now?” Scott asks. 

“Yeah, you lost me,” Allison says. 

“Don’t pretend he didn’t tell you,” Derek says, looking at them and Isaac. Only they don’t look like they’re hiding something; they just look confused. 

Allison narrows her eyes. “Tell us what?” 

“Yeah, I’m confused now, too,” Erica says. 

They’re all looking at Derek intently and he has _no_ clue what to say. He can’t _tell_ them because that’s _personal_ and it makes it at least seventy percent his fault. 

“It’s pretty obvious, if you’ve been paying attention,” Boyd says. 

Everyone looks at him and he just rolls his eyes. Most forget that he’s better at reading people than pretty much anyone else, that he picks up on things because no one thinks he’s paying attention. But he is, he always is.

“ _Not_ my place to say. And yes, Derek’s being a little stubborn, but Stiles definitely set him up for it. They’re at least equally at fault.”

“Can we just _stop talking about this_?” Derek asks. “It’s _no one’s_ business.”

Laura sighs heavily. “ _Fine_. I won’t bother you about it for...two weeks. Because I’m a giver. But after that, you owe me an explanation of what you’ve done to resolve things.”

“I hate you,” Derek tells her with feeling. 

“I’m making _no_ promises,” Cora says. “But I’m bored of talking about you, so.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he groans. “Are we _done_?” 

Under the table, he sends a text. **All clear. You owe me.**

“We’re done. Relax.” 

Scott frowns. “Where _is_ Stiles, anyway?” 

Stiles comes in with a half-grin. “Sorry, couldn’t find the soap. What’s up?” 

“What time is it?” Laura asks, checking her wrist. “Why don’t we move outside to the deck? It’s a nice night. I’ll grab another bottle or two of wine.” 

“I’m calling dibs on one,” Cora says. “I can’t deal with any more of this sober.”

Laura sighs. “Fine, you dab. By the way, I vote the boys take care of the dishes. We cooked, after all.”

“ _We_?” Elaine asks. “I _distinctly_ remember _someone_ sitting on the counter and juggling wine bottles the whole time.”

“Hey, I made pizza for the kids!” Laura defends.

“You unwrapped a frozen pizza and put it in the microwave. That’s not cooking. That takes less effort than using a calculator.”

Laura comes out of the kitchen with a corkscrew and the wine. “I _cut_ things. With a not-butter knife. That’s _something_.”

“Come on,” Elaine says. “And don’t pout. I’m glad I married you. Even if you have all the cooking skills of a college freshman and you don’t know how to leave your brother alone.” She drags Laura away, Cora on her other side. Erica looks over Allison, sizing her up. She’s always been protective of Isaac, since high school, from what Cora tells him, and she looks eager for a chance to decide whether Scott and Allison are worthy. 

The guys are all left behind, sort of looking at each other but not really. No one wants to volunteer to start cleaning, probably.

Derek surveys the dining table. It’s not too bad.

“I can take care of this,” he says, mostly because he wants to be alone. 

“You sure?” Isaac asks. He seems a little twitchy, probably worried that if he and Scott go outside, the attention will shift to them and Allison. They’re going to have to go through the pack vetting process anyway, might as well get it over with.

Derek shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. I can put a few plates in the dishwasher.”

“There’s a lot. I’ll help,” Stiles offers. 

That seems to be enough to get the other three to clear out, Boyd squeezing Isaac’s shoulder for support, and by the look on Stiles’ face, he knew that suggesting an opportunity for them to be alone would be enough to get them out. 

He starts stacking plates while Derek deals with the casserole dishes and the bread baskets. Derek hears the back door close, and when they take the dishes into the kitchen, Stiles nudges him.

“ _Can they hear?_ ” he mouths. 

“The house is basically soundproof,” Derek says. “Werewolf-friendly builder.”

“Thank _God_.” Stiles grips the counter, breathing deep. “Okay, what the _fuck_ did they say to you?”

Derek shrugs. “Stupid shit. The usual.” 

“ _Dude_ ,” Stiles says. “Real talk? I get why you’re kind of perma-angry now. I mean, I thought you were just _you_ , but, like, I _get_ it. It was a survival strategy. Your entire family is _evil_.”

“You get used to it,” Derek tells him, squirting soap into a casserole dish. “They’re not _evil_. They just have a very aggressive way of showing they care. Tonight was a lot for everyone, too many new faces.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, Cora’s at least a little bit evil.” He starts rinsing plates. “She’s _mean_. She told me I was lucky I could still skate by on my looks. Do you _realize_ how untrue that is? I didn’t even _kiss_ anyone until I was in college, okay? I was a weird, awkward person for most of my life. Well, _all_ of my life. I just got comfortable with it.”

“The late bloomers always have the prettiest flowers,” Derek says, scrubbing. 

Stiles stops, looks at him.

“My mom used to tell me that,” he explains, even though he’s worried Stiles will try to use it against him, “because I had ears like a Keebler elf and spent five years in braces. Laura used to call me _Bunnicula_.”

“No way,” Stiles says with a snort. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.” There’s nothing sharp about him right now, like he’s at ease, not stockpiling ammunition, and Derek feels almost comfortable with him like this. Not quite, but more than he’s ever been, just about.

“I would show you a picture, but I hid every picture of myself from high school.” He sets the dish on the drying rack, moving onto the second. “I was skinny, too. Couldn’t put on muscle to save my life. And my eyebrows were an eye _brow_ , singular. And I had horrible acne. Like, I looked like a before picture from a Proactiv commercial. Complete trainwreck.”

“ _Liar_. I don’t believe you.”

Derek smiles to himself. “Alright, my skin was fine. None of us ever had acne because of the whole healing thing, but the rest is all true. I’m _know_ Laura and Cora keep a secret shame scrapbook of my teen years somewhere.” 

“I take back everything I said about them,” Stiles tells him with a smirk, but it’s friendlier than he’s seen on Stiles’ face. “I would do horrible things to see it.” Derek bumps him with his shoulder.

“Shut up.”

“No, really. Horrible things. Things that would make Peter blush.” 

It’s not a particularly mature thing to do, but Derek splashes him for that. Stiles gapes at him for a second, wipes the water from his face, and proves that he’s the worst person in the entire world by grabbing the pull-out faucet and turning it on Derek. He jumps, not fast enough to escape.

“Oh, you little—” He’s cut off when Stiles sprays him in the face and it is _on_. Before Stiles can see it coming, he goes in instead of away, wrestles the faucet head from Stiles’ hands and sprays him in revenge. Stiles lunges for it, but Derek’s faster and he can hold Stiles in place with a hand on his chest. 

“You think you’re winning just because you got that?” Stiles asks, trying to block the spray with a hand. “Well, good luck, buddy.” He reaches behind him and shuts off the water before Derek can stop him. 

It’s a stand-off. 

Derek glares, but it does nothing. Stiles can meet it well enough, and Derek can’t get to the faucet without potentially harming him. And he can feel Stiles breathing under his hand. It distracts him enough to back down a little because he’s warm and soaking wet and Derek can hear them both dripping onto the tile. 

Stiles has water in his eyelashes. 

It’s a stupid thing, but it’s distracting. He can feel the shift between them, like during the shoot. The switch flipped, this sudden awareness of his body and Stiles’ body and the points of contact between them. This is something they can both understand. Something simple.

Derek drops the faucet head, eyes darting down to Stiles licking his lips. It’s not an invitation, but Stiles’ hand tugging up the hem of his t-shirt might be.

“Looks like you’re all wet. Guess you’ll have to take this off, huh?” Stiles smirks, and Derek pulls his shirt over his head, drops it with a _splat_ to the floor. Stiles tries to pull his own off, but it sticks to him, so Derek helps. When it’s over his head, Derek gets this awful urge to kiss him. He _should_ , that’s the thing, it feels right here, and he’s leaning in for it when he hears possibly the second worst thing ever.

“Uncle Derek? Is it bath time?” River asks. She’s standing in the doorway in her footie pajamas, rubbing one eye with a balled-up fist.

Derek swears in his head, backing away quickly. “Yeah, something like that. Why are you out of bed?” he asks, trying not to panic. He can hear Stiles’ heart pounding and it’s not helping. 

“I couldn’t sleep. Where’s Mommy?”

“She’s outside with Mama. You want me to tuck you in again?”

River shakes her head. “I want Mommy.” Derek looks at Stiles, eyes wide because if she tells anyone about _Derek’s bath time_ , they’re never going to live it down.

Also, Stiles is covering his nipples. For some reason.

Derek raises an eyebrow and Stiles frowns, embarrassed, hands dropping. 

“I’ll take you to Mommy,” Derek says, turning back to River, but she’s already going. 

He can’t chase after her because she’ll think it’s a game and speed up. He won’t be able to catch her until they’re at the back door, at least. And if anyone sees him shirtless, they’re going to wonder, going to think something’s going on. He can’t deal with that right now. 

Derek grabs his shirt off the floor. “Come on,” he says. “We’re getting out of here.” Stiles doesn’t have to be told twice, just grabs his shirt and follows Derek out. On their way through the dining room, he drops his keys on the table, one arm through his wet shirt. 

In the hallway, Derek stops.

There’s two _very_ familiar silhouettes visible through the colored glass window in the front door. The bell chimes, and Stiles looks at him, panicked, but not nearly as much as Derek is. 

“ _Who’s that?_ ” he hisses, head just poking out of the neck of his shirt. 

“My parents. _Fuck_. My _parents_ are here.” 

Which means Laura’s going to come to _get_ the door and she’s going to _find_ them.

Stiles starts slapping his arm. “What do we do. What do we do, Derek, holy shit, what do we—”

Derek grabs his wrist. “Come on.” He pulls Stiles behind him, heading up the stairs. 

River’s room is a no-go because they’re going to put her to bed, so maybe the bathroom? Only he can hear Max in there, opening the door, and _oh shit_ —

“Derek?” Max asks. He adjusts his glasses. “What’s going on?”

“We need to hide,” he says quickly. 

“You can hide in my room if you want,” Max says, and Derek pulls Stiles into the room. Max shuts the door behind him, frowning. “Who’s he?”

“Uh...” 

Shit, how the hell does he explain Stiles?

“Work friend,” Stiles says quickly, extending a hand. “Hi. I’m Stiles.”

Max nods, but doesn’t shake his hand. He looks at Derek’s chest and at Stiles’ neck. Where his tag is visible. Because he put his shirt on inside-out and backwards.

“The sink broke,” Derek says. “There was water all over the place.”

Max doesn’t seem completely convinced, but doesn’t question it. “Who are you hiding from?”

“Everyone,” Stiles answers, and Derek gives him a look.

“Not _everyone_. Just your parents. And mine.”

“It’s okay,” Max says. “I broke a mug last week and got in _huge_ trouble. I understand.” 

“Thanks.”

Stiles nudges Derek. “Can you hear them?” 

Derek goes up to the door and opens it a crack so he can hear, then shuts it quick. 

“They’re downstairs, in the hallway.” He looks at Stiles, grimacing. “They don’t usually come for dinner, and _never_ unannounced. I think we’ve been set up.”

“Well, _that_ ’s just great.”

“They might come looking for us,” Derek says. “They know we haven’t left the house.”

“You can hide in my hobbit hole,” Max offers, and Stiles looks at him with a sort of awe. 

“You have a _hobbit hole_?”

Max nods. “Yeah, in my closet. I like to read there. But if you want, you can hide in there and I’ll pretend to sleep in case they come looking. I was going to go to bed anyway, you know.” 

“Thanks, kiddo,” Derek says, pulling Stiles towards the closet.

“Wait, no. I want to talk to him.” He turns to Max. “You’re a Tolkien fan? You might be my favorite member of your family.”

“Yeah, Derek read me The Hobbit when I was a little kid,” he says before Derek can signal to him not to. 

Stiles looks at him with wide eyes. “ _You_ ’re a Tolkien fan?”

“Come _on_ ,” Derek says.

“Yeah, I’ll go into the closet with you,” he says, smirking, and when Derek pushes him inside, he whispers, “ _Gonna show me your horn of Gondor?_ ”

Derek covers his mouth, shutting the door behind him. “ _Scoot back,_ ” he hisses.“ _I’m up against the door_.” Stiles pulls his hand away. Makes a face he probably thinks Derek can’t see in the dark.

“I’m as far back as I can go. There’s _shelves_. This closet is _way_ smaller than I imagined when he said he had a hobbit hole.”

“Because you’re not a hobbit. Now you know how Gandalf felt.”

Stiles grins, wider than Derek’s ever seen, then bites it back, almost _fond_. “You’re such a _nerd_.” 

“Shut up.”

“ _You_ shut up,” he says, smacking Derek’s chest. He doesn’t move his hand away. “You should probably put your shirt back on.”

“It’s _wet_.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “So was mine, dude. Suck it up.”

“There’s not enough room in here to move around,” he says because it’s _true_. They’re not touching, it’s not that tight a fit, but he can feel Stiles’ body heat.

“Well, if I have to be cold, then so do you.” 

Derek snorts. “I don’t _get_ cold.”

“That’s stupid.” 

Derek just smirks at the put out look on his face. But then it changes to something a little dangerous. 

“You should keep me warm, then.” It’s partially a question, and he can feel Stiles trying to suss out if the kitchen was just a fluke or if they’re going to talk about it. Or do something about it. Derek’s not sure. There’s always the possibility that it’ll fix things, or at least dilute them, that maybe they _do_ need to fuck it out. It’s not like Derek hasn’t been thinking about it non-stop for _weeks_.

But now is neither the time nor place. Totally not.

“We are in my _nephew_ ’s closet.”

Stiles sighs. “How long are we gonna be in here anyway?” 

“As long as it takes.”

It’s quiet. The closet door is thick, like all the doors in the house, thick enough that he can’t hear Max breathing. Max is human, anyway, and he probably—

Nope. Derek is not going to think with his dick. 

Even though, _apparently_ , Stiles at least _kind of_ wants it. Maybe more than kind of. Derek had just assumed that because he wouldn’t do a shoot with him, he had no interest, but maybe he does. Well, he does sometimes. Derek felt that much at the photoshoot. 

 _Maybe_ he didn’t tell Peter he’d only do a proper scene if Derek would bottom because he knew Derek would say no. Maybe he wanted to see if Derek would say yes.

“Can we at least try to sit down?” Stiles asks. 

Derek nods, remembers that Stiles can’t see, and says, “Yeah. If it’s possible.”

It _is_ , but only barely. Derek’s back is against the door and Stiles’ is against the opposite wall, and there’s just enough room for their legs drawn up between them. 

“It’s fucking _tiny_ in here,” Stiles complains. “How the hell does he fit?”

“He _is_ nine. That probably helps.” 

“Well, that’s stupid.” Stiles scowls at the walls on either side of him, then looks at where Derek’s knee is touching his, frown a little softer.

Derek nudges his knee. “Sorry. Not much room.”

Stiles makes a weird face, mimicking strangling Derek, and he’s not quite sure what that means.

“You know I can see in the dark, right?” he asks, letting his eyes glow red for a second. 

“Ah. Well. That’s...useful.” 

Derek smiles a little at his frown because it’s almost _embarrassed_. He’s never seen Stiles embarrassed. It might not be possible. 

“So... _truth or dare?_ ” Stiles asks. His smirk is careful, familiar. 

“Nope.”

Stiles sighs, rolling his eyes. “Dude, come on. I’m not going to sit here silently in the dark with you. That’s weird.”

“Truth,” Derek says after a second.

“Shit. I only had a dare ready.”

Derek frowns. “What was the dare?”

“What do you think?” Stiles asks, eyebrows bouncing.

If it were an option right now, he would, he completely would. If only to get Stiles out of his head, even. But not here. No, he wants to do it right, not in a closet. Where one of them lives. He’ll let Stiles give him what he wants, and that should be enough. Because it’s not about _Stiles_ , not really, it’s just curiosity, and Stiles happened to be the one to bring that to life. He just wants to try it, get fucked just _once_ , so he never has to wonder about it again, and he knows Stiles can do it well. He’s seen it. And it’s not like he’s expecting Stiles to be kind or sweet about it. They’re on the same page there. 

But it’s not the place. _Later_ , but not here. 

“Come on. Come up with a truth,” he says, so at least he can stop thinking about it.

It takes Stiles a while to think of something, and he chews his lip all the while. It’s frustrating to watch. 

“Okay, well, I have a really weird question, then. Please don’t judge me? I’m just a wittle human and it’s just a curiosity thing. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, wondering if he’s going to regret it.

“So, I figured out it had to only be alphas, but, well, I’ve seen some things that’ve confused me. So, like, do you only knot people if you come inside them?”

For a moment there, Derek strongly considers leaving the closet. And possibly going to Laura and telling her where Stiles is. Because for a moment, he thinks he would rather brave his whole pack, his _parents_ , than be here right now. 

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?” Derek asks. His hand is itching for the doorknob, or maybe just to punch something because _seriously?_

“What? Is it like Fight Club? Are you not supposed to talk about it?”

Derek counts down from ten before answering.

“ _Yes_ , Stiles, it’s very much like _Fight Club_. Because it’s _not real_. That’s not a _thing that happens._ ” 

Stiles frowns. “Wait, for real?”

“Yeah, _for real_. As in, that’s just some speciesist bullshit some asshole made up to discourage humans from intermarrying with werewolves.” Something occurs to him. “Wait, is _that_ why you only fuck humans?”

“I…Shit.” He’s looking at his hands, trying to dig blunt nails into his palms. “I’m an asshole. Alright? I’m an asshole.” His tone is defensive, but he _looks_ guilty about it, and he _smells_ kind of guilty, so Derek’s not going to throw him to the wolves. Literally. But _seriously?_ He knew, objectively, that some people still thought a bunch of stupid shit, but he’s never really been confronted with it before.

“So all of that bullshit about you needing to top, _that_ ’s why?” Derek demands. Jesus, he’s pissed but also sort of...well, he’s not sure what to call it. It’s something he’s never felt before. It burns in his stomach, makes him nauseous. 

Stiles shakes his head. “No way. _That_ was just an ego thing.” He doesn’t say whether he means Derek’s or his own, but it doesn’t help any, doesn’t make him feel better.

Derek’s starting to feel a little sick, actually, and it’s because he’s _stupid_. He’s fucking stupid.  _Fuck_ , what was he _thinking_? 

Oh, right, he wasn’t. He got distracted by a pretty face, by wanting someone he shouldn’t.

“Say _some_ thing. I can’t see you, dumbass.”

Derek’s lip twitches in a snarl. “I should’ve fucking _known_. I don’t know how I managed to forget you were an _asshole_.” 

“Oh, _fuck_ you. I know that, okay? God, I _know_.” His head thumps back against the wall and he rubs his face, and Derek almost feels bad for a second. Because he knows Stiles believes what he’s saying, but it just makes him _angry_. 

“I just don’t get why or how you fell for that _shit_. You’re _smart_ , how did you—“

“Scott was bitten by a feral alpha when we were sixteen. That shit’s not supposed to happen anymore, but it did, and it was my fault. So I thought, to make up for it, I’d become his, like, werewolf guru. We didn’t have any where I grew up, so I spent a lot of time researching on the internet, and I was _impressionable_ , okay?” Stiles sighs, shakes his head, and he stares in the dark at his hands. “I mean, I eventually figured out a lot of stuff was crap, but only by, you know, experience. So I’m sorry.”

Derek’s not sure what to say to that. He gets it, but it still makes him mad. 

“You thought I would bite you, didn’t you? You think I can’t control myself,” Derek asks. He needs to hear it, needs to hear that Stiles thinks he’s an animal so he can be done with him. It’s easier than fucking him.

Stiles’ eyes snap to his in the dark. “Why would I think that? I talked shit at you in front of almost everyone we know, and you didn’t take a swing at me even though you probably should have. If you didn’t maul me then, there’s no reason you’d maul me in the heat of the moment. I think I’m pretty safe with you, buddy.” 

The air leaves Derek’s lungs like a last breath. He deflates. What’s he supposed to do with _that_?

“You were considering it, weren’t you?” Stiles asks suddenly, before Derek can get his bearings. “Doing the shoot, I mean. That’s why you were in Peter’s office when he tried to pitch it to me.”

Derek frowns. “I wasn’t. Not really, I don’t think. I—” He sighs because there’s no way to make it sound true unless he actually _tells the truth_. “Yeah, I was.”

“Danny told me you don’t. Fuck humans, I mean,” Stiles says. “I had my reasons, and they were based on false information, I know that, but you could at least tell me why _you_ don’t.”

“It’s complicated. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I once had a sex dream about Scott.”

Derek jerks, head spinning so fast he’s getting vertigo. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I want you to be able to trust me like I trust you,” he says. “So. I once had a sex dream about Scott. And, like, not just _any_ sex dream. It was my very first, and I woke up covered in jizz, and it was _terrifying_. I thought I had a crush on him for two full weeks. It was right after our parents got married, and it really freaked me out because I thought about him like my brother, you know? Anyway, I’ve never told anyone that. I don’t even let myself think about it.” 

He’s telling the truth. Derek can hear that much, and he’s not really sure what to do about it. 

“Her name was Kate,” he says, because it’s tit-for-tat. “She was the reason I started doing porn. I was horribly in love with her. I used to sometimes do heavier stuff, you know? Well, we were doing a scene once and she was going to...I safeworded out and she called me a baby on set and then she wasn’t working for Peter anymore. So. I don’t do humans, I don’t do people I’m attracted to, and I don’t let people do things to me.” 

Derek shrugs it off. It’s been a while and it’s not like he thinks about her anymore, but he has his rules for a reason. To keep things professional. So no one can hurt him like that again. And it works. 

Until it doesn’t. Until Stiles fucks up his system. Until they’re here.

“Sorry I convinced you to touch your butt,” Stiles says. 

For some reason, that makes Derek smile. Maybe it’s because it’s a childish way to say it, but maybe it’s just the right amount of levity.

“It’s okay.” Stiles smiles at that, looking down at his knees. “I kind of liked it.” 

Stiles looks up and grins. “ _Yeah_ you did. You don’t get jizz in your beard if it was just so-so.” 

“Shut up.”

“I’m not saying it was a bad thing.”

Derek knocks his knees into Stiles’. “ _Shut up_.”

“I totally came in my pants, actually. I haven’t done that in _years_. I mean, _technically_ , my hand was in my pants, but it’s the principle of the thing that counts.” 

Derek looks at him, mouth dry. “Really?”

“Uh, was I supposed to _not?_ ” Stiles asks, a quirk to his lips. “Because I should probably apologize for jerking off to the memory later on then.”

“I—”

He’s cut off when the door he’s leaning against opens and he falls back, looking up at the face above him. 

“Uh, hey, Mom. How’s it going?” One of her eyebrows is arched high towards her forehead. 

“Hi, Mrs. Hale,” Stiles says with a little wave. His mom’s other eyebrow joins the first and Derek wants to _die_. 

“Am I going to be profoundly uncomfortable with the reason you’re hiding in Max’s closet with a boy?”

“ _Mom_ ,” he groans. “I’m not thirteen, Jesus.” 

“Come on out. It’s past Max’s bedtime,” she says, taking a step back. 

He crawls out and helps Stiles up, trying not to show how mortified he is. They follow his mom into the hallway, and Derek throws a _thanks_ over his shoulder to Max. 

“So, uh, where’s Dad?” he asks, trying to avoid the topic of Stiles and the closet. 

“Downstairs. He’s helping Laura and Elaine explain to River why you and your friend were having bath time together in the kitchen.” There’s an amused glint in her eyes and Derek wants to be pretty much anywhere else in the world.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles breathes, and Derek wants to second that. This is possibly the worst moment of his entire life. And he’s had some low points.

His mom looks over Stiles, then back at Derek. “I’m going to do you a huge favor, and sometime in the future, you’re going to repay me with grandchildren, however they come to be. So I’m going to cover for you. I’m going to pretend that this didn’t happen, and you’re both going to leave, and next time we meet, Stiles, we’re going to pretend it’s the first time.” 

“I’m so okay with that you don’t even know,” Stiles says, staring at her in awe.

“But know that later on, in some sort of family setting like, say, a _reception_ , I’m going to bring it up and we’re all going to have a good laugh. What do you say?”

Derek looks at Stiles. “Do you want to suffer now or later?”

“ _Later_. Definitely later.” 

“Agreed. Thanks, Mom,” he says, and pecks her on the cheek. 

She smiles, nods. “You’re welcome,” she says. “And Derek? Next time, let’s try to be fully clothed, hm?” She winks; he looks down at his chest, face going hot, and brings up his hands to cover himself.

“Come on,” Stiles says, tugging him away and they _book it_ outside. No _way_ he’s getting caught a second time tonight. 

At his car, Stiles gives him a look, a pointed one, at his chest. 

“You looked at me funny for covering the nips, but it makes you feel better, doesn’t it?” 

“This is probably the worst night of my life,” Derek says, dropping his hands. “And I _liked_ that shirt. I have no idea where it is now.” 

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll find a new v-neck exactly like it. And if we get pulled over, now you just tell the officer it’s a modeling emergency. They’ll let us go.” 

Stiles smirks at him as they get into Derek’s car, which is kind of a weird thing but he’s not going to think too hard about it. It’s also kind of weird to feel the seatbelt on his bare chest, but he doesn’t have a spare shirt in the car. That’s something he should probably have. For emergencies. And apparently shirtlessness now counts as an emergency.

“Your mom’s nice,” Stiles says. It’s half a question.

“She can be. Sometimes. But also now she knows that she has something on us and we’ll be living in fear until she finally uses it against us.” 

Stiles frowns, then shrugs. “Next time, we’ll be fully clothed. So it’ll have to be at least _marginally_ better.” 

“Keep believing that,” Derek tells him. “Maybe it’ll turn out the power of positive thinking is a real thing.”

“Asshole,” Stiles says, smacking his shoulder, but he’s smiling a little. “I _do_ hope we didn’t scar your niece for life, though.”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad. She won’t remember it anyway.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, until she’s in therapy, like, thirty years down the line and suddenly remembers.”

“We weren’t even _doing_ anything.”

“ _Yet_.” 

It’s a loaded word, and Derek’s kind of afraid to figure out what it holds. 

He focuses on driving instead of thinking about it. 

Avoidance has served him pretty well thus far. For the most part. He’s not really sure _what_ caused the shit storm tonight, but it probably wasn’t avoidance.

“Holy shit,” Stiles says. “I have thirty unread messages. Half of them are from Erica. She’s asking me some very intimate questions. I’m kind of disturbed, actually. And _this_ one, holy _God_. Is that even _safe_?”

“In theory,” Derek says, because he knows what Erica’s talking about because he never forgets anything he says when he’s drunk, and there’s one thing in particular she’s never gotten over. “But I could only do it the once.”

Stiles looks at him. “You can suck your own dick?”

“ _No_. But almost. One time.” Derek frowns at the road. “ _Everyone_ ’s tried it at some point.” 

“Not me. Not on your life. I googled it once, and I now have a very healthy fear of slipped discs and spinal fracture.” His face is almost scarily serious. “What if you got _stuck?_ That’s all I’m saying.”

“I try not to think about it.”

“Ditto,” Stiles says, looking at his phone. “They think we’re mid-bone by the way. Scott says that I should tell you you’re beautiful to make it special. Mostly because they’re not sure where we are. Isaac says that if it’s a truck stop, I should make sure to disinfect afterwards.”

Derek snorts, trying not to think too hard about it all.

“Did you know that just a little scrape and I could get necrotizing fasciitis and possibly lose limbs? It’s a real thing. It happens.”

“You need to stop going on Wikipedia,” Derek tells him seriously. “I don’t think that happens that often.”

“Yeah, but I have bad luck, dude. I would be that person.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “It wouldn’t matter anyway because _then_ I’d just bite you and make you a werewolf. It’s a moot point.”

“Don’t you have to, like, file papers or some shit before biting anyone?”

“Pretty sure that if you had necrotizing fasciitis, no one would try to arrest me for saving your life.”

Stiles snorts. “Don’t be so sure. My dad’s a sheriff, you know.”

“Would he seriously be upset with me saving your limbs?”

“Probably not,” Stiles concedes. “More with the truck stop than anything else. I think you’d be okay. He _does_ have a shotgun, though. And Scott’s mom has an ornamental machete and a nursing degree that she could probably use if the situation called for it.” 

“Isn’t your dad supposed to be the one giving me this talk?” he asks, smirking a little.

Stiles elbows him. “Don’t be a smartass.” He looks back down at his phone and Derek drives and it’s quiet again.

It’s uncomfortable, though, because they’re back in the city and Derek’s not really sure what’s happening here. What any of this means. 

“Where am I going?” he asks.

“I live, like, six blocks from campus. Near the White Castle,” Stiles says, still looking down at his phone with a frown. 

It’s not far, and Derek’s not going to ask now if he means for Derek to come up or not. Because he’s not sure if it’s a good idea. Or if it’s a bad idea. It’s just an idea, and he’d like to see it actualized, but that’s a different matter entirely.

He finds the White Castle without too much hassle. “Where to from here?” he asks. Stiles looks up, looks around. He’s chewing on his lower lip. 

“Down the block, take a right. It’s the second building on the right.” His gaze drops back to his phone, but he types now. Quickly, fingers almost a blur, and Derek drives. 

He parks at the curb and waits for Stiles to finish up, but he gets out of the car without looking up from his phone. 

“Thanks,” he says, before shutting the door, like it’s an afterthought. Derek waits for him to get inside before driving away.

He’s not going to think too hard about it. 

It’s for the best anyway. He’s pretty sure their evening was tantamount to a heroic trial or walk through hell or something. It’s a high-adrenaline situation. They shouldn’t be making serious decisions after that.

He’s not exactly sure when _sex_ became a serious decision, but it’s definitely Stiles’ fault. 

It’s a good thing, anyway. Not to rush into anything. The whole thing is messy. There’s too much crap in the way for it to be normal, and they’re already way past that. 

But he’s not sure what it means that he wanted to go home with Stiles tonight. Or wanted to take him home, he’s not picky, but he’s not _done_ with Stiles yet. He’s not sure if it would’ve just been sex, either. Because wants him and he’s only kind of horrible for Derek’s peace of mind and he’s not satisfied yet. There’s still something to draw out between them. 

He’s just not going to think about what. 

 

When he gets home, he checks his phone for Laura’s inevitable angry/gloating text and finds one from Stiles instead. 

**Sorry dude. Found out my dad’s in the hospital. Had some shortness of breath or something. They’re keeping him overnight for observation. Just kind of freaked out I guess. Meant to see if you wanted to hang. Or something.**

The _or something_ is obvious and not, but he’s not sure what to do with it.

 **No problem** , Derek types. **Don’t worry about it. Hope your dad’s ok**

He looks at his inbox and there aren’t any unread messages. _That_ ’s surprising but not unwelcome. They’re giving him his space. That’s...unexpected and kind of amazing. 

But alone, he’s left to think about it, to worry about it all. 

There are some things, some _people_ , that Derek considers to be inevitable. Boyd and Erica were like that. He knew from the moment he saw them meet, when she _didn’t_ flirt with him, against all odds, that something would happen between them. He feels like his parents were probably like that. 

It’s not like he and Stiles are a love story or anything, but there’s something there. Something that’s going to come out, one way or another. It’s simple math, anyway. He wants Stiles. Stiles wants him. It didn’t happen tonight, no, but it’ll happen soon enough.

With a sigh, he sends a message to Peter. **I’ll do it**

He _trusts_ Stiles, that’s the thing. For reasons he doesn’t understand, he trusts that if he laid out his body and told Stiles to do whatever he wanted, he would stop if Derek told him to. It’s just a feeling he has. It’s not like Stiles doesn’t know what he’s doing, anyway. And the shoot’s not going to happen for a while, but in general, he’s willing to do it. Maybe a little more than willing.

It’s not until he’s laying down to sleep that he realizes that after everything he went through, he didn’t even get his hands on any leftovers.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope u guys like porn <3

The morning after the weirdest accidental family dinner of his life, Stiles wakes up to several text messages.

One from Scott, saying that he better have gone to Derek’s or he should be prepared to deal with the consequences in the morning. _Joy_.

A second from Scott, saying that his mom is keeping him updated and his dad is totally gonna be okay.

One from Erica, saying that werewolves don’t really have a refractory period. 

One from an unknown number, saying that Derek has a romantic soul and a devoted family with a great potential for violence. 

One from Scott’s mom, saying that they’ve left the hospital and they’re putting his dad on something for his heart.

Several from Lydia, repeatedly demanding that he wake up and call her _immediately_ because they need to talk and he needs to check his email ASAP.

That’s exactly what he does and the second he sees an unread message from Peter, which is not unusual. He emails out schedules for confirmation pretty regularly. Stiles opens it. 

And drops his phone. 

Takes a deep breath.

Picks it up and keeps reading. The second he’s done, he calls Lydia. 

“Why am I scheduled for a shoot with Derek?” Stiles asks. “There’s a script. He’s sent me a script. And pictures of the location. What’s going on?”

“ _I have a meeting scheduled with him in an hour. I was just about to come over and wake you up. Get ready. I have a feeling this is going to be an ordeal._ ”

“It’ll probably pale against last night,” Stiles says with a snort.

There’s a pause, then Lydia asks, “ _I need you to tell me what happened last night._ ”

“Um, weirdest thing. You know how Scott wanted me to go with him and Allison to Laura’s to buffer? Well, it turns out it was a set-up. Derek was there, only he didn’t know _I_ was going to be there, and it was basically an ambush. His family is _terrifying_ , and I’ve met Allison’s parents, okay? Peter wasn’t there, though, thank _God_. Also, weird fact: Derek is good with kids. Who knew?”

“ _I don’t like this. It feels nefarious. We will proceed with caution._ ”

“I could just text Derek and ask—”

“ _No. As of now, until we know what’s going on, he’s the enemy. And after you’ve made me coffee, you’re going to tell me why you have his number._ ”

Well, this is going to be fun. 

“Alright. I’ll...see you soon, I guess.”

 

Lydia is not pleased. 

Lydia is rarely pleased, and never for very long, which probably has something to do with her ambition. It got her a Field’s medal before she turned twenty and was the reason that, when all of her friends started doing porn for a little cash, she set up her own agency to represent them (and then some) and now she makes six figures, so it’s not like it isn’t working for her. 

This is not her usual kind of _not pleased_ , however. This is the kind of _not pleased_ that comes about when someone she knows does something very stupid. 

“Stiles,” she says, very carefully, “have you been emotionally compromised?”

“ _No_. It’s not like that,” he tells her. “I just...I can sympathize with Derek. He has reason to be the way he is. That’s all.”

“Do you want to fuck him?”

He gives her a look. “I mean, have you _seen_ him? He’s hot like burning.”

“ _But?_ ”

He kind of hates that she knows him that well. 

“But, I mean, I’ve met his _family_ ,” Stiles says. “I watched him pretend to be a spaceship and got caught hiding in a closet with him by his mother. It’s just kind of weird. I’ve never had sex with anyone I haven’t had a strictly sexual relationship with.”

“So you’re going to tell Peter no.” 

He nods. “That’s the plan.”

 

It doesn’t go _calmly_.

Stiles is pissed. It’s a conditioned response. Being around Peter makes him pissed, the same way being around Scott makes him happy and being around Derek makes him...a lot of things. 

Lydia should be the one talking, but Stiles just gets so pissed the very _second_ he sees Peter’s face that he has trouble controlling himself. 

“What the _fuck_ was that email you sent me?” he asks, not even waiting for the door to close behind them. 

“I believe it was fairly standard,” Peter says, linking his fingers together in front of him. “If the dates are problematic for you, we can reschedule. Of course, you could have told me that in an email.”

Stiles is going to _punch_ him in his smug little face, but Lydia touches his arm.

“He didn’t agree to do a shoot with Derek,” she says calmly.

“ _Actually_ ,” Peter says, “he did. I have a recording, which my assistant was witness to, as was a second board member.”

“ _What?_ ” Stiles asks in something between outrage and disbelief. 

Peter holds up a small recording device and hits the button. “ _I’ll do it on one condition: I top_ ,” Stiles’ voice says, and _what_. He remembers saying the words, obviously, but the whole _point_ was that Derek wouldn’t. 

“So tell me, Stiles: do you have a scheduling conflict? Or would you like to terminate your contract?” 

Stiles stares at him, blinks a few times. 

Derek _agreed_. 

Technically, Derek agreed and didn’t _tell him_. That’s not something Stiles is exactly happy with, and he’s going to make an angry phone call once he’s out of here, but that still leaves the matter at hand.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Okay. I’ll do it, but I’ve got some conditions.”

 

On his way out, he calls Derek. It rings four times before going to voicemail. He doesn’t leave a message.

“Are you sure you want to do this? I can find you work somewhere else,” Lydia says. 

“It’s fine. I just want to talk to him.” Stiles sighs, wondering if he should wait or call again. “A _week_. It’s a freaking _week_ away.”

“At least it’s only a one day shoot now,” Lydia says with a shrug. “You can just do it and get it over with.”

Stiles snorts. “I can’t believe he wants us to do an interview. Or _thinks_ he wants us to do an interview. But I guess he’s never seen us have a conversation, so that’s probably why.”

“What happens when you two talk?” Lydia asks with an arched brow.

“Well,” Stiles says, thinking about it. “We kind of drive each other crazy.” 

“That’s a given, where you’re concerned,” she says. “Now go home. Don’t you have finals in a couple weeks? Go study.”

He stops. “ _Fuck_. It’s almost the end of the semester already, isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“Why am I even _in_ college?” he asks.

“Because you don’t want to do porn for the rest of your life.”

That’s true enough. It’s not a _bad_ gig, but he doesn’t want to be doing this in fifteen years. Doesn’t want to be doing it past thirty, actually. That’s not _too_ old, but it’s not _really_ a career. Not unless he gets into directing or starts his own company, but he might like to be able to tell his dad what he does for a living someday. 

“Call me if you need anything,” Lydia says before kissing him on the cheek and heading to her car. He watches her go with a strange sense of weight in his chest. There’s something coming, he can feel it, and he’s not sure he’s going to like what it is.

His phone rings. Derek.

“ _What’s up?_ ” 

“I think we should talk,” Stiles tells him, feeling around inside his pocket for lint.

“ _Alright. I’m just leaving the gym. Do you like smoothies?_ ” 

Stiles smirks, not sure why he finds that so weird. “Yeah. Where are you?”

“ _You know the gym on Harris? There’s a Smoothie King right down the street. Unless you have a preference for Jamba Juice._ ”

“I don’t care either way,” he says, trying not to think about the fact that they’re talking about _smoothies_ and it’s _weird_. “I’ll meet you there in fifteen.” He hangs up quick because otherwise he’ll start this conversation on the phone. 

It’s not that kind of conversation. They need to be seated, facing each other, probably.

He gets there faster than he’d thought and finds Derek without trouble. There aren’t a lot of men with his build, but it’s weird to see him standing there innocuously, fully-clothed, with a straw in his mouth. He half-nods when he sees Stiles, and it’s _weird_. Seeing him places that aren’t a set. Well, _last night_ was weird. Really weird.

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t know what you wanted,” Derek says. He does _not_ look like he’s just been at the gym, but maybe blotchiness is just something that only happens with Stiles’ complexion. 

“It’s fine. I’m not very good at things that come with straw, to be honest,” Stiles tells him, looking around. “Do you wanna get out of here? These look like nice people.”

Derek looks around too, checking out the teenagers and soccer moms. “I think there’s a park down the block. We can talk there.”

They walk fast, in silence, and it’s just _weird_. Everything about it is weird. It’s not a normal situation. 

They find a bench and before Stiles can even sit, Derek’s talking.

“I didn’t know it would be _immediate_ , you know? I thought there’d be some time. A couple weeks, at least. But he must have been planning it already.” Derek stirs his smoothie. “I thought I might be the one to tell you.”

Stiles glances at him, then looks out into the park, watches a woman throw a frisbee for her dog. 

“How’s your dad?” Derek asks, sitting beside him.

The question takes him by surprise. “Fine. He’s going to be fine. They put him on something, but, I mean, he’s married to a nurse, so he’s in good hands. Great hands.” 

The dog runs back with the frisbee, its long hair flowing bright in the sun. 

“So we’re going to do this. It’s happening.”

“Only if you want to do it.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Peter threatened to fire me.”

“He wouldn’t. Not in a million years. Someone else would snatch you up too fast.” Derek takes a sip, shrugging. “And I would fight him on it if he tried.”

“I agreed, anyway,” Stiles tells him. 

“I figured. There’d be more yelling if you hadn’t.” 

Stiles looks at him, trying to read his face. “So how are we going to do this?”

“You got the script, didn’t you?”

“I guess it would get messy if we did a practice run first,” Stiles says. 

Derek nods. “Probably. It’s not very professional.” 

That’s enough of a decision, but Stiles kind of _wants_ to anyway. Not that it matters. If Derek wants to do this for the first time in front of a bunch of cameras, so be it. It’s not like Stiles hasn’t done that with a bunch of people before. It won’t be any different than the others. That’s probably a good thing since Stiles has zero track record for anything else. Not that anything else is on the table. Sure, he’s met Derek’s family, but it’s a family business. Kind of. Not really.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you on set, then,” Stiles says. Derek frowns when he gets up, but he doesn’t _stop_ him, so it doesn’t matter. 

(It doesn’t matter that Stiles kind of _wants_ Derek to stop him.)

Derek also doesn’t say goodbye, but maybe it’s better that way. For the both of them.

 

The week passes weirdly. 

 

Isaac gives Stiles apology lasagna that he says was supposed to be got-laid lasagna but apparently Derek told Erica who told Laura who told _everyone_ that they didn’t sleep together after all. It’s a little alarming, actually, how many people are apparently talking about it, but Isaac tells him that the pack doesn’t do secrets. Like that’s supposed to comfort him.

 

Stiles walks into the living room one morning and finds Scott, Allison, and Isaac doing yoga. He heats up a hot pocket for breakfast and watches them for a few minutes.

“Is this some kind of weird zen thing?” he asks with a burnt mouth. 

“Consider very carefully whether you actually want an answer to that question,” Scott says in a weird pose that puts him mostly upside-down. 

“Retracted,” Stiles says quickly, tilting his head to figure out how the _hell_ Allison became a pretzel. “Please never tell me anything about yoga ever again, actually.” 

Isaac smirks at him because he’s a little shit, and it’s enough to give Stiles some very unfortunate visuals. So Stiles steals the lasagna he’d thought he’d hidden in the meat drawer. It’s totally worth it. 

 

Erica tries to get him to go out to a bar with her, but he knows what she wants to talk about and he’s not interested. And he can feel a set-up from a mile away, and the last thing he wants is another Hale confrontation.

 

He ends up on the couch with Scott and a few beers the night before the shoot, pretending that he’s not kind of worried about the whole thing. 

“I would be totally fine,” he tells Scott, “if only his family weren’t completely batshit.” 

Scott throws a bottle cap at him. “They’re a little overbearing, yeah, and I was kind of freaked out, at first, but after you two escaped, they told me some things. They’re not _that_ scary all the time. Apparently, last time Derek had a relationship, he tried to get everyone to meet her but they didn’t, and then she turned out to be a shitty person who almost ruined his life, so. I think they were just trying to see if you were good enough. And, well, it’s been _years_ since he’s been with anyone.”

“See, this is my problem with it all, though: Derek and I aren’t dating,” Stiles says, shrugging. “It’s as simple as that. We’re not in a relationship. We’re just colleagues. And until tomorrow, we’re not even technically _coworkers_.”

“But he trusts you,” Scott tells him. “Or he wouldn’t be doing it. And I know you. You’re a good guy, and you won’t abuse that trust on purpose. Just...It’s a bigger thing for him than it is for you. Keep that in mind.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Whose side are you _on?_ ”

“Yours,” Scott says. “Because you’ll feel like shit if you hurt him and he’s— Derek’s not a bad guy. I just don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret.”

“I’m not going to _hurt_ him,” Stiles says. “I know what I’m doing.” He’s topped, like, a million times. He’s good at it. It’ll be good for Derek. Stiles will make sure of it because he has absolutely no interest in having bad sex with someone. Especially not if it’s being recorded, but also not because it’s true, really. Derek’s putting a lot of trust in him, more than Stiles is really comfortable with, actually.

“Good.” 

Stiles swirls the last third of his beer around the dark glass bottle. “I guess I should stop drinking, huh?” Scott snorts, shrugs. “I’m going to have sex with Derek tomorrow,” he says, as if hearing it will make it real.

“Yep.”

“It’s actually going to happen.”

Scott nods. “That’s the plan, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. But, like. I’m going to have sex. With _Derek_.” 

“ _Yeah._ ” Scott gives him a look.

“No, but, dude. I’m going to touch his—”

“Please never tell me about Derek’s butthole, okay? Or I’ll tell you about Isaac’s or Allison’s. Or _mine_.”

Stiles lemonfaces. “Please never do that. I’m just saying. Who knew that it would happen?”

“ _Knew_ is a strong word. _Suspected?_ I’d say a lot of people suspected. But I think everyone figured you two would seal the deal before doing it on camera. Still not sure why you _didn’t_ , actually.”

“He didn’t want to.” Stiles frowns, then shrugs it off. “I mean, we _kind of_...we didn’t _fuck_ , but, like, you know that live sesh I did the other week? Yeah, that wasn’t actually _mine_.”

Scott pinches the bridge of his nose. “You two are weird, you know that?”

Now _that_ ’s something Stiles can agree with. He’s a proud weirdo. Derek’s _definitely_ a weirdo. Together, they couldn’t be anything _but_ weird. That’s just logic. 

“I’m going to touch the butt,” Stiles says with a sigh. After a second, he grins. _Yeah he is_. He’s going to touch that butt all over. He’s going to become very intimately acquainted with that butt. Which is awesome. Because it’s a nice butt. A _really_ nice butt. Actually, people should be jealous of Stiles for being the first one to really get all up in that. 

It’s weird, though. Virginity is a social construct yada yada, but it’s still a moment of pretty intense trust. And Derek would rather do it for a camera than just one-on-one. 

Actually, no, that makes sense. Do what you know, right? And what Derek knows is getting down and dirty for a bunch of cameras. It’s probably his comfort zone. It might be weird except Stiles is pretty sure that’s basically _his_ comfort zone too, considering that all of their not-sex-related interactions have been either painful or awkward or both. It’ll be better this way. Easy. Simple.

“I’m ready for this,” he tells Scott. “I’m really ready.”

 

Alright, it’s still a little weird. 

They meet at one of the usual sets pretty early, earlier by far than he’s been scheduled in the past. They’re put into suits — it’s a thing, apparently, to tie into the promo-that-wasn’t-supposed-to-be-a-promo — and seated on a couch. Erica’s done little touch-ups, made them look a little more awake, but that’s about it. 

“We’re doing an interview,” Finstock says. “To generate interest. Just a few questions about each other, and then we’ll let you talk.”

Derek’s arm is across the back of the couch, but Stiles keeps a little distance between them. There’s no reason to _cuddle_. They haven’t even gotten naked yet.

“Peter says we can edit around your names, if you’d prefer,” Finstock says with the apathy of someone who’s usually not awake yet. “Your choice.”

“Yeah, it’s too early and I’m probably going to fuck up anyway,” Stiles says. Derek shrugs like it’s no big deal. 

“Alright. So.” Finstock has a small stack of cards. He tosses a couple out. “Okay. Stiles. What would you say is Derek’s best feature? Goddamn, that’s bad, but you should see what I threw out.” Stiles smirks and looks at Derek, takes him in. Abs are too easy. Nah. 

“What’s his best feature? His _eyes_ ,” Stiles says, faking a swoon. Derek snorts, pushes Stiles’ face away.

“Cute. Derek. How are you feeling about the shoot?”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. “He gets the fluff question and I get the serious one? Not fair.” He shrugs, face blank. “I’m ready for this. Excited, I guess.” He _has_ to say that, Stiles figures, but he can feel the tension in his body from a few inches away. But tension can mean a lot of things. 

“Stiles. What’s something most people don’t know about Derek?” Stiles _grins_ , and Derek gives him a look. He’s _not_ going to say anything about Derek’s family or the fact that Derek’s good with kids or that he likes Lord of the Rings. Nah, he’ll stay on-topic.

“Contrary to popular belief, his o-face is _not_ always angry,” Stiles says with a grin. “Hopefully, I can prove it.” He looks at Derek, who’s staring at him. “What? It’s totally not. You were, like, peaced out that one time. I was surprised you didn’t start _purring_. It was adorable.” He looks back at the camera. “He’s adorable sometimes, I swear.” 

“I’m not _adorable_ ,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.

“Right. You big strong manly man. Grrr. Fight bears. Hunt with bare hands.” Derek swoops him into a headlock, gives him a noogie like they’re fucking _eleven_.

“ _Shut up_ ,” he tells Stiles, and it’s stupid that he’s starting to interpret the gruff tone of his voice as affection. 

“Okay, this one’s for both of you,” Finstock says as Derek releases him. “Three-word first impressions?”

Stiles frowns, stroking his imaginary beard. “Very angry boner,” he settles on.

“ _In my way_ ,” Derek says. Stiles elbows him for that one, even if it’s true, to his recollection. 

Finstock shakes his head like he doesn’t get paid enough for this shit. “So, fuck the cards. This whole shoot was a pain in the ass to make happen. Talk about it.”

Stiles looks at Derek, thinking that he deserves to go first, to say what he wants to say about it. 

“It’s overdue,” Derek says. “According to numerous sources. But I think everything happens when it needs to.” 

Stiles watches him make eye contact and look away and says, “Yeah. And I’m not super into hatesex, so it’s good timing.” Derek meets his eyes at that, and Stiles was right; he _does_ have really nice eyes. They’re a nice color and they’re _expressive_. 

“Me neither,” Derek says. “I don’t think I could ever sleep with someone I didn’t like.”

Stiles grins. “Aw, does that mean you like me? Do you _like me_ -like me? Do you wanna pass me notes in Algebra?”

“Oh, shut up,” Derek tells him, and Stiles likes that his teasing frustrates him, likes it because it’s not serious. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but you like it.”

Derek rolls his eyes, and Stiles punches his shoulder.

“You know, you’re pretty fucking ridiculous, too. With your eyebrows and whatnot.” 

Derek sighs, exasperated. “Leave my eyebrows _alone_. They’re hereditary.”

“You sure about that?” Stiles asks because now he’s thinking about Laura and Cora and Derek’s mom’s brows. “I think your family just told you that to make you feel better. I know for a _fact_ that you’re the only one with the crazy murder brows.”

“They’re from my dad’s side of the family,” Derek tells him, “and they’re not _crazy murder brows_ , they’re _emotive_ and _distinguished_. And you don’t have room to talk. I bet yours take almost as much work as mine.”

Stiles is affronted, touches his own brows soothingly. “These babies? Nobody touches them. I do _not_ manscape. I’m just naturally mansome.”

Derek snorts. “I think you have to wait a couple years before your man _anything_.”

“Ooh, the ageism is strong in this one,” Stiles bites back, grinning. “What’s wrong, old man? Worried about my ambition?”

“Just wondering if you’re as good as you think you are,” Derek says, a challenge playing about his mouth. 

“Oh, I am, alright,” Stiles tells him. “You’ll find out soon enough, won’t you?”

Derek’s eyes are intense but not hard, leveling him. “I guess I will.” There’s something charged in his look that makes Stiles want to say fuck the other set and show him right here right now. 

“Alright, Jesus, that’s all I can take of that,” Finstock says. “We have scenes to shoot.”

 

There’s actually _some_ story to the video: they’re boyfriends, and Stiles has been away on a business trip for a few weeks, but his flight home is delayed, so instead of the romantic evening Derek had planned, he finds Derek the next morning, asleep after trying to stay up waiting for him. It actually kind of makes Stiles wish he’s ever been in a real relationship for a moment, but he pushes it away.

There’s Stiles’ end of a phone call they have to film against a half-assed fake airport wall, then they go to this mysterious new set Peter sent them pictures of. It _looks_ like a nice place, and it’s cool, actually, that they’re going to be the first ones to use the new set. 

 

They take their own cars, but Stiles glances at Derek in his rearview mirror a couple times. Mostly to make sure he’s still there. That he’s not going to bail. 

He shouldn’t bail. Stiles is going to make it really good for him. He’s freaking _determined_. 

 

Derek does his end of the phone call pretty quick, and while everyone sets up for the actual shoot, they sit in the stairwell of the apartment building and conduct an orchestra of nervous tics.

“You’re good, right?” Stiles asks because he’s not sure _he_ is.

“Yeah. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

Stiles shrugs. “Well, sometimes you get roped into things and make promises you feel weird going back on and then you end up somewhere you don’t want to be, so.” Derek looks at him, very blank. “I’m not saying that’s what happened. I’m just saying that if you’re not, it’s okay. We could reschedule. We kind of owe it to Peter to be a pain in his ass about this.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Derek insists. “Are _you_ good?”

“Yeah, I’m great,” Stiles tells him. “I just wanted to be sure. It’s not fun if you’re not. I mean, what’s even the point, then?” 

Derek doesn’t say anything, just looks at his hands. 

“Is there anything I need to know? That you don’t like, I mean,” Stiles says.

“Not really,” Derek answers with a shrug, not looking at him. “Well, I don’t like to be called ‘pretty baby’. Don’t read a lot into it, it’s just a personal thing. But that’s it. You?”

Stiles waffles on that one for a moment. “Well, it’s not in the script or anything, but I have a thing about blowjobs. I love giving them, don’t get me wrong, but I also have a reasonable fear of choking on a dick in a very literal sense. So, like, I gotta take the reins until I give you the signal.”

“What’s the signal?”

“You’ll _know_. It’ll be completely unambiguous. I promise.” He shrugs. “I mean, for the future. Future shoots. Whatever.” He’s not sure if non-porn sex is a go, if he _wants_ it to be a go, if _Derek_ wants that. Jeez, he’s a freaking mess. 

“So, other things. Those are fine.” When Stiles narrows his eyes, Derek makes a weird sort of gesture with his eyebrows, so Stiles squints at him like Leonardo DiCaprio, and then Derek has some sort of facial muscle spasm. Stiles stares at him for a second more, waiting for him to explain.

“Yeah, you’re really going to have to be more clear on that one, buddy.”

Derek gives him a look. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to because I have _no idea_ what your mystical eyebrow sign language means,” Stiles says. “We’re not on that level yet.” 

“Oral.” 

Derek stares at him, lines around his eyes getting more pronounced as the silence stretches.

“ _Of a different kind_.”

Oh. 

 _Oh_. 

“Wait, seriously?” Stiles asks. “Dude, I have _plans_. Involving your ass and my mouth. Unless that’s not cool. In which case, I respect that and I won’t try anything. But you should know that I take great pride in everything I do with my mouth.”

“It’s fine.”

Stiles gives him a suspicious look. “You don’t _have_ to let me, you know. If you don’t want me to, I won’t.”

Derek shrugs. Looks at his hands. His nails are nicely shaped, trimmed short, not bitten, like Stiles’. Stiles reaches out to touch his hand, realizing what he’s doing and stopping at the last second. His hand hangs in the air for a second, then drops. 

It’s a weird thing, intimacy. Stiles isn’t really sure what it means sometimes. But he thinks it’s not realizing it when his knee touches Scott’s during a video game marathon, and Isaac hooking his chin over Allison’s shoulder when she’s grazing in the freezer, and the weirdness of Scott being okay with everyone peeing in the bathroom while he’s in the shower. 

And it might also be holding someone’s hand before they do something big. 

He’s not always sure about bravery, either, but he likes the idea that it’s doing something even though it’s terrifying, that it’s a _choice_. So he chooses to be brave. He takes Derek’s hand and tells him what he needs to hear.

“I’ll never judge you for saying what you want. Or what you don’t.” He leans in and he’s not sure why, but it’s probably a really shitty idea. It’s almost _definitely_ a really shitty idea and he’s almost definitely going to regret it, but Derek’s leaning in a little, too, and their foreheads meet. It’s going to happen, it’s really—

“Hey, losers!” Erica calls. “Get your asses in here! We’re starting soon, and I need to make sure you’re pretty.” 

It’s about as effective as being sprayed with freezing water. He and Derek are on their feet and not touching and effectively not making eye contact.

It was a fluke, anyway. It wasn’t a _real_ thing. Tensions are high. This is just a nerve-wracking experience and they’re not acting like themselves because of it. It’s just pre-shoot jitters.

They’re going to kiss anyway. It’s part of the shoot. It’s no big thing.

“I have to go,” Derek says before they get to the door. When Stiles raises a questioning eyebrow, he wiggles his fingers suggestively. 

“You don’t have to,” Stiles tells him. “I talked to Peter about some stuff, I mean. About going off the script. So I’ll do it, if you want. It’ll probably be easier that way. They can edit it out if that’s what they want.”

Derek looks at him for a second, then nods. “That’s fine.” Stiles is about to go through the door when Derek stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “What kind of _off the script_ are we talking?”

“It can be kind of... _overwhelming_ at first. My first time was, I mean. And if there’s three positions, well, it takes some _practice_ to be on top. That’s all I’m saying. So I asked if we could cut it down to two.” Derek frowns a little, but he doesn’t tell Stiles it was stupid or anything. “And, uh, I got him to agree that you could come whenever. They can cut it out if it’s not what they want.”

“That’s not very professional,” Derek says stiffly.

“No, it’s not,” Stiles agrees. “We probably should have done this _at least_ once already, but we didn’t, and I want you to have a good time. I want you to want to do it again.”

“I don’t need that,” Derek tells him. “I can handle it.”

Stiles looks at him, the thin crease between his brows that won’t ease up. “I know you can _handle_ it. But you’re not supposed to have sex because you can handle it. You’re supposed to do it because you _want_ it. Now, I might not be able to back out, but _you_ can, and if you don’t want to do this, you should.”

“I don’t want to back out,” Derek says, frowning.

“But do you _want_ it?”

“ _Yes_.” 

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Do you want me to _prove_ it?” 

Stiles isn’t sure he wants to say yes to that, but he does _need to know_. Enthusiastic consent is kind of a thing for him.

Derek glances inside the apartment, pulls the door shut, and presses Stiles against the wall with his whole body. “You want to know the truth?” he asks right against Stiles’ ear. He nods quickly, biting his lip when Derek slots a thigh between his legs. “I’ve been jerking off thinking of you fucking me for _weeks_. I’ve been fingering myself and wishing it was you every day since that first time. _Trust me_ , wanting it isn’t the problem. I just don’t want to want it more than you do.”

Well, _shit_. There’s a time for boners in this profession, and it’s not before going through full makeup. So _that’s_ fantastic. 

“I don’t think you need to worry about that one,” Stiles tells him. He can feel his voice crack and stutter in his throat and _what is he, fifteen?_ “Yeah, you’re all good there.”

Derek pulls away and looks like he’s about to say something, then frowns, head cocked to the side. “Come on. Erica’s talking shit.” 

When he follows him into the apartment, Derek doesn’t flinch when Stiles touches his shoulder. Which is good because he didn’t mean to do it in the first place. He’s just getting tactile for some reason. It’s weird. It’s like he’s drunk. That’s the only time he’s like this. When he’s drunk and halfway to a hookup. 

It’s bad. But he’s got a feeling it’s going to be _really good_.

Erica does Derek first, and somehow, Stiles gets stuck behind him. There’s no reason for it, but there he stands, feeling the strength in Derek’s shoulders through his hands. It’s a weird electric thrill and he’s pretty sure there’s something wrong with him. This isn’t how it goes. 

He wants to rub his cheek against the top of Derek’s head or something, and he’s halfway to actually _doing_ it, which is not okay at _all_ , and he needs to not be right here right now. 

“Don’t judge me,” he tells them before heading off to find the bathroom. 

The nice thing about it being a porn set is that there’s a bottle of lube on the counter next to the sink. For Derek, presumably. 

Knowing that shouldn’t be a turn on. 

This is a _problem_. In a very bad way. And not thirty feet away are three werewolves who can, he safely assumes, hear him. They’re going to know. That he’s so hopped up he can’t even _wait_. But if he _doesn’t_ , it’ll be too quick later, he’ll end up rushing things out of desperation, and there’s no need for that. 

He undoes the flies of his slacks, shoves them and his underwear down quick. Shit, this is stupid and they can _hear_ , they could be _listening_ for all he knows. 

He tears a couple squares of toilet paper before squirting a couple drops of lube into his hand, just enough to get it done and over with. 

The first touch makes him jerk, stupidly, but it’s good cause it means he’ll be done fast. The humans, at least, will think he just had to pee. Boyd won’t say anything, and even though Erica will give him looks that’ll make him _wish_ she’d just give him shit, she won’t. And Derek, well. Derek can take it as confirmation that no, he’s not just doing this because he agreed. 

It’s messed up, that’s what it is, because he’s supposed to be reluctant about this all, but instead, he’s jerking himself like he hasn’t since _high school_. 

Jesus, but he’s going to be fucking Derek soon. It’s going to _happen_. He’s going to have Derek all spread out beneath him, trying not to let it slip how good it is. That ridiculous blank face he puts on? Yeah, Stiles is going to fuck it out of him. Derek’s going to have to put himself together again after. 

Stiles bites his lip and grabs the toilet paper so he doesn’t make a mess. It’s not really a _good_ orgasm, not satisfying, like he’s drawn in too tight, but at least after, he feels a little more calm. Like he can do this without making an ass of himself. 

He washes his hands, tucks everything back where it should be, and makes sure he doesn’t look like he just had a very sad, very short yank. 

Erica knows anyway, so it doesn’t matter. Her smirk is wide, and when he gives her a look, she buries her face into her shoulder to hide a laugh.

“I hate you,” he tells her earnestly. 

She shakes, putting down her tweezers, and he just kind of wants to die. Derek huffs a sigh, shifting in his chair. He gives Stiles a dry look.

“Hey! Don’t give me that. It’s at least half your fault anyway.”

 _That_ gets him probably the most obvious once-over of his life. More of a _twice_ -over, really. Derek doesn’t just undress him with his eyes; he rides him hard and puts him away wet and yeah, his dick twitches in his pants, trying valiantly to get hard again. The way Derek licks his lips says he _knows_ , too. 

“Finstock, how long until we shoot?” Stiles asks, breaking Derek’s gaze late. When he looks back, Derek’s smirking a little.

“As soon as you two are pretty, Stilinski.” 

Stiles looks at Erica, who presses her smirk tight and sighs. “It’s HD, Stiles. I have to work on you two.”

“Yeah, but _realistically_ , we’re just going to sweat most of it off.” She gives him a look, then peers at Derek’s brows for a moment. Stiles can feel his fingers trembling in time with his pulse. 

“ _Fine_. You look good.” She cups their cheeks with both hands. “It’s like your first day of school for me. It’s a big moment. You’re all grown up.” 

Derek bats her hand away. “Shut up.” He grabs Stiles’ wrist. “We have work to do.”

“ _Yeah_ you do. _Work_ it!” she calls, laughing. The look Derek gives her says very clearly _sleep with one eye open_. 

Finstock looks at the two of them and just covers his face with his hand. “Just get into your places.” Stiles does _not_ smile at how _done_ he looks because it shouldn’t be amusing. Even if it kind of is. Even if he gets a weird thrill from the idea of people being tired of him and Derek. Especially now that they’re halfway getting along. Well, ambiguously more than halfway right now, but that’s mostly sexual tension, so he’s not sure if it counts.

 _Aw yeah_. He’s gonna be getting laid pretty soon. 

And in the hallway with an empty rolling suitcase in one hand, he absolutely does not worry about the fact that he’s not really thinking of this in terms of work at all. It’s no big deal. They just have sexual chemistry. It’s a thing that happens sometimes.

He stands there, tapping his foot, and waits for someone to shout his cue to him. 

It’s easy enough to wait because he’s thinking about how good Derek looks naked, wondering just what his skin tastes like, if he can make Derek’s eyes roll back in his head. 

“ _ACTION!_ ” he hears, and Stiles straightens his shoulders and takes a deep breath.

He opens the door wide, grinning. “Honey, I’m home,” he says, even though it’s cheesy as fuck. Fucking Greenberg. 

The cameras track him as he kicks the door closed and leaves his suitcase in the hall, walking forwards into the living room. 

Derek shifts a little, pretending to be asleep in the armchair. One socked foot is wedged under the other. His blazer is hanging over the arm of the couch like it was tossed there. He’s wearing a loosened tie and his collar is opened, unbuttoned, and his eyelashes look shockingly delicate above his cheekbones. His head rests on one hand, propped up on the arm of the chair, and for a moment, Stiles imagines coming home to this. It sits heavy in his gut. 

As Stiles stalks over, Derek breathes even and slow. He doesn’t stir. Not until Stiles bends over him and kisses the top of his head, one hand sliding into his hair. Derek jerks a little, like he’s waking up, then grabs Stiles by the lapels and pulls him to his mouth.

It’s weird to think that this is their first kiss. It doesn’t feel like it. For some reason, it feels like they’ve kissed a million times, or at least a couple.

Derek’s mouth is unexpectedly soft, almost like he’s sleepy. For all the kiss starts chaste, there’s a need in it. Stiles cups his face, thumb brushing the concave of his cheek. Derek opens. Like he’s flipped a switch, his mouth opens and draws Stiles in. 

His mouth gives but his hands take, pulling Stiles in enough to tumble across his lap. Stiles grins at that, pulls away to press his smiling mouth against Derek’s. 

“I missed you, sleepyhead,” he says and kisses Derek on the nose. It surprises him, Stiles can see it in the widening of his eyes, but he holds Stiles close with a hand on his face. 

“You’re _late_ ,” Derek tells him, lips brushing against the corner of his mouth. That’s too much of a tease, really. Stiles doesn’t want a _tease_ , he wants all of the kisses that didn’t happen for some reason or another. A lifetime of kisses, really. Not the full spectrum, of course. Not right now. There’s time for soft, lazy kisses later. 

Derek sighs against him when he licks and slides into Derek’s mouth. It’s a purposeful curl of his tongue, welcomed easily. Something hums, spread wide and electric, through him when he feels Derek trying to taste him, all the way down to his toes. 

Yeah, that’s enough of that. They need to get to the other room. 

Stiles hops up out of Derek’s lap and pulls him up by his tie with a grin. Derek’s eyes flick up from his mouth, and there’s no trace of hesitation or doubt there. Just _want_ , and he follows Stiles eagerly. Chases him, even, ducking in for his mouth when Stiles pauses to sidestep the couch. 

“ _God_ , I want you in all the ways,” Stiles tells him, and it’s not from the script, not even, but no one calls _cut_. Derek pulls him in and kisses him stupid for one blinding moment before letting him go again to shove his blazer off his shoulders. They manage to get another foot or two before Finstock calls it.

They stop, waiting as cameras are moved into the bedroom, and Stiles winds Derek’s tie around his hand. Derek visibly swallows, looking at Stiles’ mouth, and he’s about to just fucking _go for it_ when Finstock yells again.

“ _Action!_ ” 

Good fucking timing, too, because Stiles is halfway to his mouth. They’re not going to get anywhere like that, though, and Derek seems to realize that at the same time because he picks Stiles up just before their mouths can meet. Stiles is quick, wraps his legs around him and leans down to nip at Derek’s lower lip.

The whole plan to get into the bedroom _basically_ works, but they don’t get far. Derek gets him against the wall and rocks into him in a way that makes Stiles groan and clutch his shoulders. 

Shit, he shouldn’t be hard like this, not from just _kissing_ , but, _God_ , he is. 

“Want you naked,” he tells Derek, pulling his tie loose enough to get over his head. “Wanna unwrap you like a present.” 

Derek pushes his face into Stiles neck but lets him down. His breath is hot. It makes Stiles’ fingers shake when he goes for Derek’s buttons, so much he gets frustrated because he can’t get the fucking shirt open.

“Fuck it, I can’t—” Derek’s hands close over his, pull them away. There’s a slight tremble to his fingers when he undoes them himself. He steps away, and Stiles leans against the wall to regain a _hint_ of composure. It doesn’t really work. Derek’s eyes burn into him, make his pulse loud in his ears. Maybe as loud as it is to Derek. 

The shirt hits the floor and Derek works his belt open with quick, practiced hands. 

“I’m going to do horrible, wonderful things to you,” Stiles tells him.

Derek’s slacks drop to the floor, and one of his eyebrows is quirked. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” 

“Oh, I’m gonna keep _that_ one, alright.”

“Yeah?” Derek asks, pulling off his stupidly cute argyle socks. “Then what are you doing over there?” 

“Admiring the view, smartass. Give me a minute to take it in.” He gestures at the length of Derek’s body, moved for a second by how much he wants to get his mouth _all over_ him. “You’re _obscene_ , you know that?” 

Derek shrugs, his thumbs sliding back and forth across his stomach beneath the waistband of his underwear. “What are you going to do about it?” 

“I have a few ideas,” he says, not even caring how spaced he sounds because he’s watching Derek edge his underwear down without really committing to it. It’s a fucking tease, and he has to _know_ what it’s doing to Stiles. “I want you. On the bed. Please.” 

Derek smirks at him, turning towards the bed, and throws him a wink. For a second, Stiles thinks he’s just being _cute_ , but no, he’s _lethal_ , bending over and pulling his briefs down in a move that makes Stiles clutch at his chest unconsciously because _that ass_.

“You’re going to kill me, _Jesus_ ,” he breathes as Derek kneels on the bed. 

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He can’t stay away. That’s just asking too much of him as a person. He’s not that strong. 

It’s like Derek melts into his hand when he touches Derek’s hip. Like this, Derek’s definitely taller than him, where usually it depends on their shoes, but it puts him in a good place to kiss Derek’s shoulder, from just above the curve of his bicep all the way to the juncture his neck. His skin is hot and alive under Stiles’ mouth, shifting when Derek’s hand reaches up and curls his fingers in the short hair at the base of Stiles’ scalp. 

When Stiles wraps a hand around the base of Derek’s cock, he lets out a low groan, head falling back. Stiles kiss the edge of his jaw, gives him a slow stroke because he knows it won’t relieve any pressure. Well, that’s his _intent_ , but there’s something fascinating about the hot weight of him in his hand, the slide of his foreskin up the shaft. He can feel Derek’s pulse in his hand, in his mouth, pressed against his throat. 

Fuck, he’d love to just jerk Derek off nice and slow. Just to _watch_ him. He’s beautiful, in a way that makes Stiles want to keep him in bed for a day, a week, as long as Derek would let him. But that’s not going to get them anywhere.

Stiles kisses the nape of Derek’s neck, follows the bumps of his spine. Derek curls forward. The hand that was in his hair covers his hand on Derek’s hip instead. He has big hands, but his fingers fit well between Stiles’, his palm warm and anchoring as Stiles moves down his back, past his shoulder blades, the flat planes of his waist, all the way down to the dimples above his ass. When Stiles tongues them, Derek’s hand leaves his to steady himself on the bed. 

Letting go of Derek’s cock, he situates his mouth around Derek’s tailbone, watching the tension in his shoulders. He’s not sure if it’s the good kind or not. 

“What do you want?” he asks, running a hand over Derek’s hip. “Can I eat you out?” 

“Yeah,” he says. It’s soft, but he goes down to his forearms and says louder, with more conviction, “Please.” Derek tilts his ass up for him, face buried in the crook of his arm. When Stiles lays a hand on each cheek, he presses into the touch. 

He spreads Derek open, traces his thumb over the soft skin around Derek’s hole. “I’ve been thinking about this, you know.” Derek makes a sound that’s like a tactile thing, slamming into Stiles with a wave of want. “I’ve been thinking about it, about rimming you for hours. Until you can’t even _think_ anymore. Would you let me?”

Derek nods into his arm first, then says, “Yeah. I would. I fucking would, holy—” Stiles breathes over him, smirking when Derek shudders under his hands. This is going to be _fun_. Because Stiles is good at oral. He prides himself on his skills, and this is, like, the _Olympics_ right here. Like it’s all been practice before now. Practice for maybe blowing Derek’s mind. Hopefully. 

Very softly, he presses a kiss against Derek’s hole. Stiles doesn’t think he has any sort of virginity kink, but the idea that he’s the first person Derek’s trusted like this? That kind of does it for him. 

It turns out, he was kind of right all along, he realizes as his kiss gets sloppier; Derek is _loving_ this. He’s pressing his mouth into the inside of his elbow, but Stiles can hear him humming words he can’t make out. When Stiles pulls away, his hips jerk back like he can’t control himself. 

Stiles takes a bit of joy in being a tease, when the occasion calls for it. And it’s calling for it. So instead of giving Derek a relentless tongue-fucking, he traces over his rim with just the tip of his tongue. Mindless, at first, then, very deliberately, he spells his name. By the last letter, Derek’s whole body is trembling like he’s about to fall apart. 

 _That_ ’s when Stiles decides to press in a little, twist his way inside. With all the teasing, Derek opens for him greedily. 

“Oh, _fuck..._ ” he moans as Stiles wiggles in as far as he can go. He lets out a noise like a sob when Stiles thrusts into him. The muscles under Stiles’ hands tighten and release, like he’s not sure what to do. If he wants to get away or get more.

Stiles draws back, sliding his thumbs over Derek’s rim. “You’re fucking beautiful, you know that?” He spits, pushes it in with just the tip of his thumb, and Derek makes a broken noise he wants to hear for the rest of his life. “Tell me what you want. Tell me what to do to you.” Derek rocks his hips back, takes in Stiles’ thumb all the way. 

“Want you inside me. _Need_ it— _fuck_.” He gasps when Stiles twists his thumb inside him, and _Jesus powerbottoming Christ_ , what Stiles wouldn’t give to just watch his _face_. “You better fucking give it to me, or I swear to— _Jesus_ , you—” Stiles smirks, pulling out his thumb, and just presses the pad of it against Derek’s spit-slicked hole until it lets him in, just a couple times, because he likes that Derek can’t talk through it. 

But he needs lube. ASAP. He has plans to make Derek fall in love with his fingers, and that’s not going to happen with just spit. 

There’s some on the bedside table, thank God, but he could probably ask one of the _numerous people around them_. Shit. That’s right. There’s more in the room than just Derek and Derek’s ass. Awesome. 

He gets his shirt and pants off quick, mostly because it’ll be gross and difficult with lube all over his hands. For a second, he hesitates at his underwear, but ends up shoving them down because it’ll be a major pain in the ass later. 

“Come _on_ ,” Derek urges him when Stiles settles back in behind him.

“ _Greedy_ ,” Stiles teases, getting an idea. “If you’re so eager, you can hold yourself open for me, can’t you?” 

There a still moment where he wonders if he’s gone too far, but Derek shifts, chest against the bed, and reaches back to spread himself wide. 

Yeah, Stiles isn’t going to survive this.

He squirts some lube into his hand and smears it around Derek’s hole with one finger. Trying to get him to relax, but it’s not really necessary because Derek pushes back against it, getting it in to the second knuckle before Stiles was planning. Derek’s tight and burning around his finger, but not so tight that he can’t move around a little, stretch him enough for a second. 

With a little smirk, he laps at Derek’s rim, feeling him relax and loosen enough to press his first two fingers in together. He goes deep with them, stroking Derek from the inside in a way that makes Derek rock back against him. 

This, Stiles has some practice with. On himself, on others...he knows how to zero in on someone’s prostate or g-spot. Really, he’s known since high school, when he spent an hour with an anatomical chart and his fingers buried in his ass. It’s easier on someone else, though, and he finds what he’s looking for easily enough.

Derek _whines_. His hips jerk and his fingers press dents into the flesh of his ass, and Stiles just rubs in little circles with his fingers, thumb reaching down to stroke Derek’s perineum. 

There’s a choked noise and Stiles runs the back of his lube-covered hand soothingly down the inside of Derek’s thigh. 

“Shhh, you’re okay,” Stiles tells him. Derek’s _shaking_ , muscles shifting like he’s just barely in control. The sound humming out of his body is nothing short of desperate, like a long, low whimper. 

When Derek comes, it’s not really surprise. Well, maybe to _him_ , going by the way he arches and keens with it. His ass tightens in a stuttering rhythm around Stiles’ fingers, and Stiles rubs a little slower, gently, but doesn’t stop until Derek jerks away. He can’t hold himself open anymore, like it’s too much effort, and Stiles lays a little kiss at the base of his spine, a couple more across his lower back, tasting a light sheen of sweat. 

If they weren’t _here_ , doing it like this, he might say some things. Things he probably shouldn’t say, anyway. The kinds of things he can’t get away with, not unless he’s teetering over the edge. 

But he thinks them, deep in a small place inside him, and breathes them into Derek’s skin. 

He lets Derek come down a little before rocking his fingers in, testing him. That gets him a little noise, but Derek leans into it, so Stiles pulls out. Maybe just to watch his hips chase his fingers, to feel the way his body tries to keep Stiles in. 

When he closes in behind Derek and taps his ass, he gets the message to move forward enough for Stiles to actually get on the bed. As a reward, Stiles dips his two fingers back in, marveling at the way Derek’s body just _opens_ for him. Fuck, he’s gonna feel so good wrapped tight around Stiles’ cock. Holy God. 

Instead of jumping to a third finger, he presses in with both thumbs, twists, stroking at his rim. Derek makes the most _delicious_ noise at that. 

“For the love of _God_ , just _fuck_ me already,” Derek groans.

Stiles grins. “You’re so _demanding_. I love it. Fuck me, but I do.” 

Because he’s so hard he thinks his dick is going to fall off and because Derek wants it, he slicks himself up, biting his lip a little at how it’s not enough, but he doesn’t just go for it. He slides his cock between Derek’s asscheeks, lets him feel what he wants so bad. 

“You think you’re ready?” he asks, making sure he catches on Derek’s rim. It makes him duck his head for a second, but he looks back at Stiles, eyes dark. They flash red, and he says,

“If you don’t fuck me, I’m going to hold you down and ride you.” The way it comes out is almost a threat, but probably less of one than he means. 

Stiles lines his cockhead up and says, “I love it when you’re bossy.” He’s gentle, testing the waters, really, almost too gentle. But Derek’s hole opens for him and he sinks in just past the head. Fuck, he has to stop himself, hold himself back with a tight loop around the base of his dick because holy _shit_. 

“Come on, I can take it,” Derek tells him, voice a little raw. 

“Just gimme a sec. _God_ , you’re _tight_.” 

He takes a deep breath, picturing Scott’s ballsack in as vivid detail as he can muster. _Better_. Because he’s getting flashbacks of the couple years where he effectively had multiple orgasms, and not in a good way. 

“Please, St—” Derek bites his name back and _shit_ , that’s a lot closer to breaking than he’s ever seen. “ _Please_. I want to feel it.” The fact that he’s _waiting_ is something, at least, because they both know it wouldn’t take much for Derek to get what he wants, that he has the raw strength for it. But he’s not, he’s trusting Stiles enough to do it himself. 

He sinks in slow, more leaning into Derek than anything else. Derek’s silent, perfectly still, not even breathing, so Stiles stops, bends down to kiss Derek’s shoulder blades, traces the whorls of his tattoo with his tongue. He’s unbelievably tight, smooth-slick with lube, and Stiles is pretty sure he can feel Derek’s pulse through his dick. 

When Derek starts breathing in time with him, he slides in all the way, making sure to go slow, and flattens himself over Derek’s back. He’s trying to be good, trying to stay still, let him adjust, so he distracts himself by sucking at the skin right behind Derek’s ear. 

The sigh that escapes him reverberates through Stiles’ chest, and it feels bizarrely like the opposite of an out-of-body experience. Like the lines between them are blurring, molecules fitting into each other until they occupy the same space. Whatever it is, it’s not normal. It’s something terrifying and kind of thrilling and new in ways he can’t wrap his head around.

It’s not really _fucking_. 

Really, it’s not even close. This isn’t what he signed up for. There’s nothing mechanical or practiced about it. Every time Derek’s heart beats and he can feel it in his body, it’s a discovery of something else, some new state of being. 

Jesus, it’s just sex. That’s all. He’s overthinking it.

It’s not really just _sex_. 

Not the way he usually does sex. The drive behind it is all wrong. Honestly, he could probably stay like this forever, and that’s not a _normal_ thing. He’s going down a strange, strange road with no brakes, no steering wheel. 

He can’t just _do_ this. 

Not the way he feels it. 

There’s no place in the script for what he’s feeling and there’s no space between him and Derek to fit it. 

“I need you,” Derek says, the words soft and stretched, “to _move_.” 

And he does. 

He rolls his hips, burying his face in Derek’s shoulder. Keeps his movements slow and small because the idea of moving away is impossible. It feels like they _fit_ , not just because of the obvious, or maybe it is, but his body has come home and he never wants to leave.

_You are beautiful._

_I love you._

_Let me stay with you._

His teeth stutter over the tendons in Derek’s neck, mouth trembling from holding back a million stupid things he should never say. Things he won’t even feel later. But right now? Right now is something else.

He finds Derek’s hand and threads their fingers together because he’s high or stupid on Derek’s body. But maybe he’s not the only one because Derek pulls his hand in close, wraps himself up in Stiles’ arms, kisses the bone at the base of his thumb. It makes his hips jump because he’s mindless, pretty much, just a single strung-out nerve relaying signals from his body. 

Every time he sinks in all the way, skin melting into skin, he thinks he could probably die happy like this, that there’s really not much else to make it better—

“I wanna look at you,” he says, drunk off the thrum of Derek’s pulse under his mouth. “Please. I wanna see you.” It’s better than saying _I want to kiss you so much I want to die_ but not really by a lot.

Derek nods, rubbing his face against the sheets. “Okay. Yeah.” He follows Stiles’ hand when he pulls away and makes a little sound when Stiles makes himself pull out. If he could bottle that sound and keep it, he would. But he’s going to be composed. It’s not like the world is ending because, for the spare seconds it takes Derek to flip over and move up the bed, they’re not touching. It’s okay. 

He tells himself that, but Derek pulls him in close, hands warm on his ribs and shoulder. Stiles takes him in, the darkness of his eyes, the slight flush to his skin, his cock, half hard, against his belly. 

The only things he can think to say are ridiculous, so he takes a little risk and cups Derek’s face with one hand, lines up his cock with the other. That slick heat sinks into his bones, and he misses Derek’s face, but it’s maybe okay. Derek’s hand clamps tight on the back of his neck, pulls him in for a bruising kiss. It’s either too hard or just hot breath, there’s no real inbetween, but Stiles doesn’t mind. Doesn’t mind how Derek wraps his legs around him, holds him in tight. 

Stiles draws back from the kiss, frames Derek’s face with his hands as he thrusts in slow and deep. Just watches the flutter of Derek’s lashes, the flicker of red in his eyes. At this pace, he could probably go a little while longer. Which is good because he’s going to get Derek off again if it kills him.

He finds Derek’s cock between them. A good stroke or two and he’s twitching in Stiles’ palm, biting down pretty hard on his lower lip. 

“I love watching you come,” he says because he can’t stop himself. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, you know that?” 

He changes his angle, tries a little shallower, and this noise crawls up out of Derek’s chest, this _growl_. He lets go of Stiles, reaching above his head for the headboard because his nails are lengthening into claws. Stiles strokes him in counterpoint to little nudges against his prostate, grinning like an idiot when Derek throws his head back, teeth visible. 

“You gonna lose control for me? My cock got you that worked up?” He thrusts _hard_. It makes Derek whine, and yeah, he’s close. _Jesus_. His ass is _magic_. And not just because he feels like perfection or some bullshit. Stiles _loves_ sex of all kinds and he digs a good fucking sometimes, but he’s never like _this_. 

When Derek comes, Stiles’ hips jerk, pressing in all the way, and he pretty much bites his own hand off trying to hold back. Jesus _fuck_. He manages to jerk Derek through it, but only barely, eyes squeezed shut because he _can’t_ watch. And he can’t _not_. He catches the last little pulse from Derek’s cock, slides his thumb through it in a way that makes Derek whine before pulling away to give him a chance to breathe. 

He’s supposed to come on Derek, he remembers. That’s what they’d wanted. And he can do that. Probably. But he can’t hold back a few deep, jittery thrusts because _magic_. Seriously. 

So magic that he’s going to fuck up his timing, which is _not_ happening. 

He pulls out slow, knowing Derek’s pretty sensitive probably, and stops for a second. Derek looks at him. Nods slow. Touches his arm, rubbing his thumb over Stiles shoulder. 

Without thinking, really, Stiles takes himself in hand, grip tight and slick but a poor comparison to Derek. He strips his cock in quick strokes that yank him over the edge so hard he only half bites back a shout. It’s a fucking _rush_ , and when he’s done, when Derek’s a fucking mess and pretty much holding him up by this point, he’s panting and just _drained_. 

“I think you broke me,” he says, and Derek smirks before pulling Stiles down to kiss him soft and slow. His mouth is giving and Stiles just wants to curl up inside of him forever, probably. He doesn’t even care that he and Derek are probably gluing themselves together with jizz. It’s totally cool. Really, Stiles wouldn’t give a fuck if they had to call in the fire department to separate them. Derek’s body just feels _good_ , even if Stiles is kind of awkwardly half-draped across him, half-twisted into his arms. 

“ _I can feel you smiling_ ,” Derek whispers, lips brushing against Stiles’.

“Just happy,” Stiles tells him. He sucks Derek’s lower lip into his mouth, grinning wide when Derek wraps his arms around him tighter and steals in with his tongue. Derek rolls him, settling over his body and getting their legs all twisted up together. It’s nice, though. 

Stiles runs his fingers down Derek’s back when he sinks down to suck at Stiles’ throat.

“We’re never getting out of bed again, are we?” Stiles asks. “Because that would suck. Totally overrated, you know.”

“ _Agreed_ ,” Derek says, lifting up to smirk at him.

“And.. _CUT!_ ” Finstock says, and it’s like someone dropped a bucket of cold water over them. He and Derek freeze, listening to people move around equipment and _oh God_. 

It’s a panic response, the laughing. It just comes out of him and he can’t hold it back. Derek shakes against him a little, face buried in his neck, then brings a hand up to cover his mouth. 

“I hope you know I’m blaming you for everything,” Derek mutters, lips catching against his skin. “Everything _ever_.”

 _That_ just makes Stiles laugh harder, and Derek sits up a little to give him a dirty look. Only that’s the exact moment some kind soul was gracious enough to give them a towel, and it hits Derek in the back of the head. Derek just blinks menacingly, so Stiles takes the towel and drapes it over his face like a veil. 

“You’re the worst,” Derek tells him. “Actual least favorite person. I hope you know that you’re horrible and I hate you.” He takes his hand off Stiles’ mouth to pull the towel off his face and starts making a brave attempt at cleaning them off. 

“Aw, am I not invited to your birthday party?”

Derek spares a second to glare. “I’m not _having_ a birthday party.”

“Wait, when’s your birthday? Is it coming up?” Stiles asks. He has _no_ idea what he’s going to get Derek. Maybe a really nice dildo? Or a bunny. He needs a little joy in his life. 

“ _No_ , my birthday isn’t coming up.” He throws down the towel because what they _really_ need is a shower, but whatever. Stiles doesn’t have much of an interest in moving anywhere. Not for a little while. 

Derek doesn’t seem to be on that boat. 

“Would you just lay back down? You’re making me feel like a guilty sloth.”

“We _should_ be getting up,” he says. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I _know_ that, dingus. But I came so hard I think my bones are jelly, so just give me five. And I will not take it as a personal affront that you can move when I can’t.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Derek huffs, rolling over to lay on his back next to Stiles. He gets his legs free, too, which is good because sweat might not get gluey and gross, but he’d rather not get sweat-stuck ever.

“So, scale of one-to-ten, how was it?”

Derek side-eyes him pretty hard. “Are you seriously asking me to rate your performance right now?”

“Well, I have a comment card for you to fill out later. Don’t worry, it’s anonymous.” Derek tries to smack his chest, but it’s more of a half-hearted flop than anything else. 

“It was okay,” Derek says at last.

“Oh, for the _love of_ —” Stiles kicks him lazily, rolls to shove him with his shoulder. “If you’re gonna be like that, then I’m claiming this bed all for myself. You can lay on the floor.” Derek rolls his eyes and heaves his legs over Stiles’ body, effectively eliminating the his attempts to push Derek out of bed. “ _Okay_ , he says. _Okay_. Did that look just _okay_ to anyone else?” he yells. 

There’s no response from the other room, but Derek elbows him in the ribs. “Give it a rest.” 

“Can we not do the thing where you pretend it wasn’t, like, _awesome?_ Because it was awesome. Really fucking awesome.”

“Whatever,” Derek says.

“No, don’t give me that,” Stiles tells him. “It’s like...you know when you really have to pee? Like, you just saw a movie and drank a whole large soda by yourself because you were trying to get a good deal, only now you have to pee so bad you think you’re gonna die?” Stiles asks, looking at Derek. “And when you finally _do_ , it’s like the heavens have opened up and everything is good in the world?”

Derek snorts. “That’s a bit of an overstatement, but yeah. What about it?”

“This is _better_.”

The way Derek looks at him is weird and too intense, maybe, and there’s only one thing for it: it’s time to cheapen the moment. Like a boss.

Stiles grins at him. “You like penis.” The look he gets for that could wilt flowers and make nuns feel ashamed.

“Wow,” Derek says. “Stunning insight. You should be a detective.”

“I’m actually double-majoring in Psychology and Criminology, so you _think_ your sarcasm is insulting, but really you’re just affirming my life goals. How does _that_ feel?”

“Like I never want to talk to you again,” Derek tells him. 

Stiles shrugs. “That’s cool. We don’t _actually_ have to talk. I can come up with some great alternatives.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and Derek facepalms, so it’s worth it. “Can I tell you something?”

“ _No_ ,” Derek says, hand still over his eyes. 

“Okay, so when River said that I was Loki and you were the helicarrier, I thought it was kind of weird and awesome even though it didn’t really fit, but, like, _now_ it’s totally perfect.”

Derek lifts up a couple fingers to peer at him. “Am I going to regret asking _why_?”

“ _Because now I’ve been inside of you_ ,” Stiles tells him. When Derek reaches around, grabs a pillow and throws it in his face, he can’t help but laugh. So what if he’s trying to provoke Derek? It brings him great joy. 

“If I’d known you were such a shithead, I never would’ve slept with you,” Derek says when Stiles tosses the pillow to the foot of the bed. No point in letting ammo sit in reach. 

“Liar. You knew all along. And you kind of like it, even.”

Derek snorts. “I wouldn’t go _that_ far.”

“Yeah, but _I_ would.” 

It’s hard to hold back a smirk when he looks at Derek, who glares at him for a moment before the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. A little smile that turns into a full-on grin. And _fuck_. Stiles needs a pair of shades for that smile because it’s _blinding_. 

New life goal: make Derek smile more.

If it goes anywhere near as well as the goal to make Derek happy via buttsex, then everything’s going to go just fine. 

“Stop staring at me,” Derek tells him. “And we really should get up.”

“ _Fine_.”

They lay there for a full minute and a half before Stiles says anything.

“I thought we were getting up.”

“We are. It’s a process. We have to commit to the idea first.”

Stiles looks at him with something like respect. “Aw, that excuse was almost _okay_. It’s like my lazy, shirking ways are rubbing off on you. Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Yeah, _that’s_ it,” Derek says with a snort and then— _the horror!_ —he starts to get up.

“What are you doing? Stop that. Immediately. Cease and desist!” Derek gives him a look, standing next to the bed, and Stiles glares. “I hate you. I was _comfortable_.” 

Derek sighs and holds out a hand. 

“Do you want a high-five or something? Because I think we missed the mark for post-sex high fives.”

“I was _offering_ to help you up, but nevermind—” Stiles grabs his hand and tries to pull him back into bed, but Derek’s too strong for that, that bastard. “Come on. I don’t know about you, but I’m planning on getting clean at some point.”

Stiles makes a big stink about it because he fucking can and he does what he wants, but he _does_ get out of bed. His legs feel a little weird, but that’ll go away soon. 

“FYI, I’m gonna robe it for a few. I can imagine nothing worse than putting that cheap suit back on,” Stiles says, stretching a little. 

Derek looks at the clothes strewn across the floor for a moment. “Might as well.” He bends down to pick the clothes up, and Stiles whistles. 

“ _Warn_ a guy, _Jesus_. My body isn’t ready for that.” Derek glares at him, then smirks, bending down again with considerably more care. 

_Magical._

_Ass._  

“You can’t do that to me,” Stiles tells him, fanning his face. “I’m _weak_. You’re giving me the vapors.” 

Derek straightens up. “Am I?” 

Stiles is not prepared for the sexy stalk.

Not. 

Prepared.

“Not fair. Not fair at all.” Derek cups his hip, thumb tracing a path between freckles. His eyes are locked on Stiles’ mouth. “Holy God. When are we shooting together again? Because that needs to happen, like, _now_.”

Derek’s head tilts, mouth curling into a few different shapes before settling on something close to a smile. “No idea. But it could be arranged for the near future, I’m sure.” 

“Yeah?” Stiles feels like a _little_ bit of a loser for how hopeful he sounds. “Because I know we have a couple more shoots planned, but we could do more. I’m just saying. All the sex. All the positions.” _That_ ’s a little too eager. “I’m just saying that it’s a possibility. It could be explored. If you wanted.”

Derek ducks in, nose rubbing against the underside of Stiles’ jaw. Before Derek, he wouldn’t have thought to describe himself as having any sort of neck kink. Now, well, it’s doing something for him. He’s going to have to ask Scott if it’s a werewolf thing or not. 

“I can make it happen,” Derek says very quietly just below his ear. “Whenever you want. Whatever you like.”

“Stacks on deck? Patron on ice?” Stiles asks, grinning.

Derek pulls away, gives him a dry look. “Did you really just—”

“Hey. You!” Finstock’s in the doorway. “We’re clearing out, and we’ve got the keys, so hurry up and get dressed so we can head out.” 

“Just a sec, boss!” Stiles tells him, grabbing a shirt from the bed. He checks the tag—not his measurements—and passes it to Derek. His underwear are easy enough to find, since they wore different colors, but he lets Derek figure out whose pants are whose. 

“Such a shame to see attractive men putting _on_ clothes,” Erica says, leaning against the doorframe. “Any plans for tonight? I was thinking we could go out.” She looks at both of them, and Stiles realizes that a couple weeks ago, if she’d pitched the idea of Derek going out with them, he would’ve been _pissed_. 

“I can’t,” Stiles says, buttoning up his shirt. “Essay due at midnight. All I have is an annotated bibliography, so it’s not happening.” 

“Haven’t you had that assignment all week?” she asks and Jesus, he can take care of himself. 

“Been busy.” _Freaking out about fucking Derek. For no reason, apparently, because hot damn._

“What about you, cutie?” Erica asks Derek. 

He shrugs. “I was thinking about staying in tonight.”

“I _bet_ you were. But that’s not going to happen, so you should come out with us. It’ll be fun.”

“ _We’ll see_ ,” he says with something of a warning in his tone. Stiles isn’t sure where _that_ came from, but he’s locating his left shoe, so he has bigger things on his mind. 

“I suppose you _could_ help Stiles with his essay,” Erica says with little smirk. 

Stiles shakes his head, bending down to look under the bed. “It’s for my Behaviorism class. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. And I _really_ don’t need any distractions.” Also, _awkward_. And Stiles is pretty sure that having Derek there would just be an excuse to fuck around instead of working. Which would be _great_ , except he’s at the point where he can’t procrastinate anymore. 

Actually, it’s a thing he needs to figure out. Because he’d be _really_ into the idea of fucking Derek again. Pretty much whenever. Like, he could probably go again in twenty minutes. So he’d like to discuss the idea of being fuckbuddies. A lot. Or even not discuss it. They could just have more sex instead. After all, talking can be really overrated—

“Stop trying to make trouble,” Derek says. It’s pretty clearly directed at Erica because _duh_. “I’m not going out tonight.”

“We’ll see.” Erica turns, blowing a kiss over her shoulder, and leaves them to make sure their clothes are vaguely in order.

“I think you’re going out tonight,” Stiles says as he wiggles on his left shoe. 

“I’m _not_.”

Stiles snorts. “Keep telling yourself that.” He ties a single-knotted bow and stands. “If the gang’s all there, tell Scott that I’m not doing his essay for him and he needs to get his ass home to work on it.”

“I will. If I’m there. Which I won’t be.” Stiles raises an eyebrow and Derek sighs. “Not in the mood for a lot of people.” When Stiles narrows his eyes at him, Derek gives him a defensive _what_ look.

“You’re not going to go home and have a crisis are you? Because you shouldn’t. Jesus wouldn’t have given you a butt if he didn’t want you to have fun with it. A lot of fun.” 

“I don’t think Jesus works like that,” Derek says, pretty obviously avoiding the point.

“Well, we’re vaguely Jewish, the Stilinskis, so,” he tells Derek, waving a hand. “The _point_ is that you shouldn’t have a crisis about the awesome sex we just had because it was _really awesome_. I mean, it seemed like you enjoyed it. You did, right, I’m not just—”

“It was _good_. And I’m _not_ going to have a crisis. I’m just not feeling up to getting drunk or whatever.”

Stiles shrugs. “Whatever, dude. Just checking.” 

Derek looks like he’s going to say something but stops himself. He’s dressed and looking surprisingly sharp, considering. Actually, it kind of looks like, for a second, they’re two businessmen who had a quickie in some hotel, and now they’re going to pretend it never happened.

That’s not something Stiles is on-board with, the pretending-it-never-happened thing. Because that won’t get him laid again. Probably not. If it does, well, he’ll see.

But he _does_ need to scope out whether Derek’s game for some action on the side. Because that’s a thing that should happen, if Derek’s down. It should happen a lot, hopefully all over Stiles’ apartment, and he’s going to rub it in Scott, Allison, and Isaac’s faces because he _can_. Yeah. Stiles can have sex with hot people, too. In places they eat. Howabout that.

It turns out to be very, very awkward, though.

They go back to their respective cars, and, like, they parked next to each other, so they’re both _right there_. And there’s a million chances for Stiles to just say something simple, like, _hey, if you ever want anything, you have my number_. Something kind of vague but also suggestive. So it’s not, like, harassment, but Derek has an opportunity to make it happen.

Only Stiles doesn’t say anything. It just _feels weird_. It’s awkward. And he’s not sure why. 

Probably because Derek is an awkward turtle, and he _knows_ that’s pretty middle school, but it’s true. It’s just a fact. Derek just seems kind of uncomfortable in general. So he’s going to be cool.

When he gets home, Stiles promises himself that if he finishes his essay by 10:30, he’ll send Derek a polite and not weird text. 

 

He finishes almost ten minutes too late, and instead of doing it anyway, he takes it as a sign from the universe to just let things be. No reason to be pushy. If they’re going to hook up, they’ll hook up. He’s not going to push it.

Even though he wants to.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> read the notes, loves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY THERE'S SOME STUFF IN THIS CHAPTER THAT YOU MIGHT NOT WANT TO READ so check out the notes at the end for a more detailed description of some dubcon

Derek throws himself onto his bed when he gets home. 

If it were possible, he’d like to not have to exist anymore. Just stay in his apartment for the rest of his life. Not talk to anyone. Ever. No contact with the outside world. 

No _phone_. 

Because he keeps _looking_ at his phone, and no, that’s not a solution. Calling Stiles is the opposite of a solution. Calling Stiles would create _more_ problems, and it’s already bad enough as it is. 

Besides, what’s he supposed to say?

_Oh, hi, Stiles, I just wanted to see if maybe you’d be okay with it if I kissed you on the mouth and asked you to come over for a little while or maybe forever?_

He’s a fucking _idiot_. 

He should’ve known that this was all a stupid idea.

He _did_ know. That’s the worst part, that he _knew_ and he did it _anyway_. He knew he was breaking all of his rules and probably a couple more that he hadn’t thought of yet, and he just _went for it_. Like a total idiot. 

And now he’s laying here and everything’s shit and he only has himself to blame. 

What he needs is someone to come into his life every time he’s about to do a stupid thing and tell him to just _not_.

Instead of people like Erica and Laura who tell him _full speed ahead_. 

Some person who will look at him and say, _Derek. I see you’re starting to, against all better judgement, not hate this Stilinski kid. Well, that’s a really terrible decision so you should probably move to Baltimore or something and never interact with him again instead of filming a scene with him and basically ruining your whole life_.

Before today, Derek was aware that he was having sex with people he would not go out of his way to have sex with. But it’s like being raised a vegetarian when you've never had a really good steak; it may not always be stellar, but it’s bearable because you don’t have the anything to compare it to. But he's mostly carnivorous, so there might be some bias there, but the  _point_ is that now he's got something to compare to, and he doesn't have any interest in going back.

That doesn’t exactly _work_ since he’s been doing this basically since getting out of high school and his only real skills are sex-related. 

He can’t just _quit_. His parents might have some money, but he’s not going to mooch off of them.

But he can't even _think_ about fucking anyone else. His mind just keeps putting Stiles' face on them. What the fuck is he supposed to do with _that?_

The answer, of course, is to send Peter a quick text— **I’ll only shoot with Stiles** —and throw his phone at the dirty laundry pile. He will _not_ text Stiles because Stiles doesn’t need to know. It has nothing it do with him.

It really doesn’t.

Because he’s not asking Stiles to make the same choice. Stiles is in college and he needs the money. Just because Derek is apparently unable to keep his emotions out of anything doesn’t mean Stiles has to suffer. If Derek doesn’t tell him, he’ll never have to find out. It’s for the best.

Derek’s just _done_ really. There’s nothing left for him. Nothing at all. 

And he _knew_. He just can’t fucking get over that. That he _knew_ it was a stupid decision and he did it anyway and he only has himself to blame. He wasn’t _clear_ , didn’t say what he should’ve at the right moments. Didn’t tell Stiles _I know it’s not fucking professional to sleep together before we shoot, but absolutely nothing about us is professional and I_ want _to._  

The messed up thing is that he’s _glad_ that fucked. Well, kind of. Derek’s going to be jerking off to the memory probably for the rest of his life, so that’s something. He’s pretty sure he came in ways he didn’t know were even _possible_. There’s fingering yourself, then there’s Stiles’ hands, and those are two very different things. 

He needs to find out if Stiles wants to do it again. 

Not just to be filmed. 

There are things he wants to do that he wants to keep for himself. There are ways he wants to get to know Stiles’ body that he doesn’t want anyone else to know. He has this image of staying in bed all day, seeing how many times he can make Stiles come, getting to know how his third orgasm is different from his second and first, how it wrecks him differently. 

And now he has a boner. _Great_. Isn’t that fucking _perfect_. Isn't that just a great summary of his life. 

Apparently, he has some kind of disease. That’s the only explanation. Normal, healthy people don’t get like this over someone. Don’t get wrapped up in the idea of snuggling on the couch or fucking on the floor or brushing their teeth together and fighting over who has better dental hygiene. 

He might be broken. A little bit. 

It’s not a crisis, except that it might be.

His phone starts buzzing, and he’s not going to answer it. That’s for sure. Instead, he takes a shower, careful not to completely wash Stiles’ scent off his body even though he should. It’s stupid that he isn’t, but he knows that they’ve only got a couple more shoots planned, so he’s going to savor it while it lasts. 

It’s pathetic. He knows that. It’s not like he’s pretending he’s not pretty much at the absolute depths of being a sad, sad, excuse for a person. Well, he’s not pretending to _himself_. It’s good to keep up a pretense of being vaguely _together_ as a person to others. He’s an _alpha_ for crying out loud. 

An alpha whose pack is overly interested in his life. 

He’s gotten texts this week from Laura, Cora, and even his _mother_ about everything with Stiles. Half of them are encouragement, half of them are reminders that if Stiles fucks him over, they _will_ intervene. 

It’s partially his fault because he hasn’t dated since Kate, but that was a time issue. He just didn’t feel like making time for dating. His needs were being met. 

Not that he and Stiles are dating. He’s not _delusional_. But it’s a relationship of sorts. Technically, Stiles met his family before they fucked. That’s not normal for him. And it’s not like he _made_ it happen, but it did, and the fact of it is that as uncomfortable as that dinner was, it didn’t feel like Stiles was out of place. 

His dad even sent a text telling him to _make good choices_. Derek’s pretty sure he doesn’t know about the closet incident, mostly because his mom is saving that for maximum dramatic impact. And it’s not like Derek didn’t get her little implication that Stiles would be, well, _around_. 

Derek wants Stiles around.

Just kind of _there_. Present. In his life. Preferably for a while. 

Nope, he’s not going to think about it because that’ll just be wallowing and pining and pathetic. He’s going to think of something not-Stiles-related. It’s going to be great. 

He’s probably working on his essay right now, isn’t he?

“ _No_ ,” Derek tells himself. “You are going to get dressed and be a _person_. A person who’s not _fixated_ on some asshole kid with a great mouth.” Derek sighs, rubs his face. “And you’re also going to stop talking to yourself in the second person.”

He only manages to get as far as sweatpants and kind of throws himself on the couch, but it’s ever so slightly better than sprawling across his bed in the depths of ennui. 

Yes, he’s at the point where he’s considering this to be _ennui_. 

But not at the point to watch Titanic. As he’s flipping through channels, he _does_ linger for a second, considering it while Celine Dion sings about Kate and Leo, but he makes the executive decision not to go there. 

He hears Erica and Boyd only a second before they burst through the door. 

He _really_ needs to start locking it behind him. 

She takes him in, sighs _deeply_ , and shakes her head. “This is sad. This is really sad. I bet you’re not even wearing underwear, are you?” Boyd shakes his head with a disappointed look, arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s my _home_. I can do what I want.”

“And the thing is,” she says, ignoring him to barrel on, “it’s not even for easy access. Because you’re not even getting laid. You’re going to lay there and be weepy all night, because you think that’s somehow better than coming out with us.”

“I’m not being _weepy_.”

One of her eyebrows arches. “ _Yet_. But you’re halfway there.”

“I know you don’t want to admit she’s right,” Boyd says, “but this isn’t really a healthy coping mechanism.”

“I’m not _coping_ with anything,” Derek tells them both. 

“We were both there, you know. There wasn’t a fade-to-black,” Erica says.

Boyd nods. “I was stuck doing close-ups, so _trust me_ : we know what went down. And by that, I mean that we saw some uncomfortably tender lovemaking and complete social failure after.”

“Seriously, it’s not even that _hard_ ,” Erica says. “You could have just told him to call you if he wanted to get dinner or go for a repeat performance.”

Derek stares at them, wondering how they could possibly be so _dense_. “Stiles would _never_ go for that. Not in a million years.” Erica gives him a dark look, then marches over, grabs a throw pillow from the end of the couch, and throws it in his face. 

“You are so _dumb_. Jesus, I guess we’re going to have to pull out the big guns.” 

As Derek pulls the pillow from his face, he sees her tapping away on her phone. That’s not good. There’s absolutely nothing good that can come from that. 

“I need a beer for this,” Erica says. She looks at Boyd. “You want one?” He shakes his head, and she goes into Derek’s kitchen.

“What if _I_ wanted one of _my_ beers?”

“Then you can get up and get one for yourself. I’m nobody’s beer wench.” She pops the beer open on his counter, but he has a feeling that complaining about it won’t get him anywhere. 

“What are the big guns?” Derek asks, trying to figure out if the fire escape is a good option.

“Well,” Erica amends, “the slightly-bigger-guns. The Big Guns has a televised grudge match in San Diego tonight.”

His stomach drops. “No. Laura does _not_ get to rub this in my face.”

“You think that’s what she’s going to do about it?” Boyd asks with a snort. “Who do you think we are, Derek?”

“Horrible, meddling people,” he answers without having to think about it.

“I think what you mean is _people who love you_ ,” Laura says as she comes through the door. “Really, Derek. We’re not _actually_ trying to ruin your life. We’re trying to _stop you_ from doing it yourself.” Laura looks at Boyd and Erica, then back at Derek, then back again. “I can handle it from here.”

Erica and Boyd defer to her in a way they don’t really defer to Derek. But they know him better. And they’ve seen him naked too many times to count, so that’s probably part of it. But Laura’s always been better than him. They can see it as well as he can. 

“Hey there, Buns,” she says, lifting his legs up so she can sit on the couch with him. “Don’t be feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I’m _not_ ,” he says, even though it’s pointless because they both know it’s a lie.

“Come on. Tell me about it.”

Derek hugs his throw pillow because he feels like he’s fourteen again with his first broken heart. That night, she skipped out on a date so he could cry into her lap, and she didn’t even make fun of him for getting snot all over her. She’s good for that, for being leaned against, when it really comes down to it. 

“What’s going on with your boy, huh?” she asks, squeezing his knee.

“I think—” he pauses, frowning in a way that feels like childhood “—I think I made a mistake on purpose because I wanted to believe it was a good idea. I trusted him and fucked him and fell over him, and I don’t know in what order. And I have _no_ idea how it happened.”

“It goes like that, sometimes.” 

Derek looks at her, trying to read what that means on her face. “Not to me. I don’t _do_ this, you know.”

“I know that. And I also know that, as much as you pretend you don’t like people, you do. You love them a lot, but you’ve...you’ve been distant, Derek. You’ve pushed people away, since Kate. I _get_ it, I do, but my point is that you can only do that for so long before someone inevitably gets through.”

“I was _fine_ , you know,” he says. “I was getting along _just fine_.”

She gives him a stern look. “You think so?” she asks. “You know, I made you the alpha so you’d have to trust people. I mean, it was Mom’s idea, but still. Leadership can teach you a lot about what it’s like to depend on someone. You’re not very good at that.”

“What do you think I should do, then, huh?” he snaps. “It’s not like I can depend on _Stiles_. He didn’t sign up for that, you know. It’s just me.”

“I’m not telling you to depend on Stiles; I’m telling you to depend on your _pack_. Because we’re here for you. You don’t have to go all lone wolf and hole yourself up here to wallow. You _shouldn’t_. It’s not healthy. There’s more to life than just some boy, you know,” she tells him, flicking him on the nose. 

Derek rolls his eyes, says, “He’s not _just_ some boy.”

“I know. He’s a cutie and he can hold his own against Cora, so I’m not saying he doesn’t have anything going for him.” She shrugs. “You gotta either buck up and tell him how you feel or keep on going with your life instead of getting stuck worrying about it. That’s no way to live.” 

“I _know_ that. I just...I don’t know what to do right now.”

“Why don’t you come out and spend some time with your pack? Worst case scenario, you get wildly drunk and cry on someone’s shoulder. Actually, that’s the best case scenario, too. It’s cathartic. Remember when I called you because I thought Elaine wasn’t getting a divorce?” 

Oh, he _remembers_. Remembers paying for long-distance from fucking _Alaska_ because she’d called collect, remembers a very wet and drunk _Derek, I think I fucked up_. 

“It helps. It really does,” she says, and she _does_ have the authority here. “You’ll feel so much better, I promise. A good drunk cry can solve pretty much everything.”

He looks at her, sighs like it’s a big thing even though he’s convinced. “ _Fine_. I’ll go out.” 

Laura grins and squeezes his hand. “Good. Now go get dressed. You look like you just walked off a set.” 

He rolls his eyes but gets up, heads to his room for acceptable clothes. Nothing fancy, just jeans and a shirt. No one to impress. 

“By the way, Mom wants to have breakfast with you tomorrow. She wanted me to pass that on.”

Derek stops, shirt halfway over his head. “How much does she know?”

“She said she’s willing to eat at that diner you like.”

“Oh _shit_ ,” he groans. Mom _hates_ diner food. 

“Yeah, so be ready. She wants to meet him, you know. She was upset that she didn’t get to.” 

Yeah, _right_. 

“What about Dad?” he asks. _He_ , at least, advocates for Derek’s privacy. Usually. Actually, he just kind of stays out of it most of the time. But _still_.

“I think it’s just you and her, bro,” Laura tells him. “She said she wants to give you some advice. Alpha stuff or boy stuff or something. Probably boy stuff. I’m pretty sure she got it out of Peter that you did a scene with him.”

Derek sticks his head out of his room, looks at her with wide eyes. “Wait, how much do _you_ know?”

“I wouldn’t say I know the _details_ ,” she says, wincing. “Thank God, because there’s only so much I can handle knowing about your sex life. But, uh, word on the street is that you took it like a man. Possibly _twice_.” 

“I’m going to _kill_ Erica,” Derek decides. “Dead. So dead.” 

“I don’t get what the big deal is. You guys fucked. It was good. You want to fuck again. From what I hear, he’s down with that.”

“Yeah, but I want to do _more_ than that,” he tells her with a sigh of frustration. “He’s...I don’t know. He got under my skin, and now, I think I want to be with him. Long-term.”

“Slow down, Buns. Why don’t you try _dating_ first?”

Derek rolls his eyes at her. “What even _is_ dating, anyway?”

“You do things together. Things that aren’t just sex. You hang out. You talk. That’s what people do, you know. They get to know each other.”

“Well, I _know_ Stiles,” Derek says. 

“No, you know his penis,” she tells him matter-of-factly. “The rest happens after _talking_ and spending time together.” 

“Whatever. I’m ready. Let’s go before I change my mind,” he says. "And I'm blaming you for everything, you know. If you hadn't told me to do it, there wouldn't be a problem." 

She holds up a hand. "Ex _cuse_ you. We encouraged you to pursue someone you were attracted to and actually liked. I did  _not_  tell you to shoot with him, and I _especially_ didn't tell you to shoot with him before sleeping with him in real life. Give me a little credit, Derek. I wasn't  _actually_ trying to fuck you up." 

"Shooting porn  _is_ real life," he tells her. "It's what I do. I'm a pornstar. That's literally my job description. And there's nothing wrong with it."

"I didn't _say_ that, and you know I don't have any problem with what you do. No one does." She sighs, looks at him. "What  _is_ wrong is pretending that sleeping with someone for your job is the same as sleeping with someone otherwise. For work, you both have an understanding that it's to get the job done. That's all. But if you'd slept with him otherwise, you would've had to talk about it and figure out what it means for both of you. At least if you'd done that, you'd know where you stand with him. Instead, you're pretending you're not freaking out because you have no idea what he wants."

He glares at her, clenching his jaw.

"Was any of that wrong?" she asks with a knowing look.

" _No_ , I just wish I thought about that before."

"Well, we were  _going_ to get there when you were over for dinner, but  _someone_ got the hell out of dodge before we could get to step two of our intervention."

Blinking slowly, he heaves a sigh. "Do I even want to know?"

"Door in the face approach," she tells him. "Spring something on someone that you  _know_ they'll say no to, and they'll be more likely to cave to your actual, smaller demands. You just ran away before we could convince you two to babysit for us together, thus creating a situation to get to know each other better in a scenario where sex is off the table."

"That's kind of evil, you know."

She shrugs. "If it works and everyone's happy, then who cares? Now come on. Boyd and Erica are waiting for us."

 

Before they head into the club, Derek makes sure to send a text to his mom agreeing to breakfast. Because he’s still pretending he’s a good son, and there are conversations that shouldn’t be avoided.

It’s weird because it’s like everyone’s here _but_ Stiles. Derek feels his absence acutely, finds himself turning to catch a glance that isn’t there. By the time he’s two drinks in, it’s gnawing at him. It’s stupid. He’s a grown man. He doesn’t have to be attached to Stiles at the hip just because they slept together. It's stupid, anyway, because like Laura said, Stiles was just sleeping with him to get the job done. That's all it was for him.

“So, how’d the shoot go?” Scott asks him. “We couldn’t get a word about it out of Stiles.” 

Derek has _zero_ idea of how to interpret that, so he just says, “It was fine. Just a normal shoot. Nothing to say.”

“There’s _always_ something to say about a shoot,” Scott tells him. “ _Always_. Did it go that bad?”

“Or that _good?_ ” Allison asks. Scott frowns like he hadn’t even considered that, like the idea makes him reevaluate everything he knows about Derek. 

“It was _fine_ ,” he repeats. “That’s all I’m going to say.”

Scott leans forward, a wrinkle between his brows. “Are you saying you don’t kiss and tell? Because it’s _porn_ , dude. It’ll be on the internet in a few days.” Derek rolls his eyes, peers into his empty glass like some more alcohol will magically appear. “Unless it wasn’t just another shoot.” 

“I’m getting something else to drink,” Derek says, not looking at him. “Anyone else want something?” He gets waved off, thankfully, and heads to the bar, only for Scott to grab his arm.

“What happened?” 

Derek yanks his arm out of Scott’s grip. “ _None of your business_.” He keeps going, but Scott keeps up. He doesn’t speak again until Derek’s ordered another drink, but Derek knows that’s probably because he’s gathering his forces or something.

“I don’t want, you know, _details_ ,” Scott says, looking up at Derek out of the corner of his eye. “But I need to know if I should go home and be there for him.”

“He’s _fine_ ,” Derek tells him with a sharp look. 

“Are you?”

Of _course_ Scott’s perceptive. 

He probably has some measure of emotional intelligence, even. But Derek’s not bitter. And he’s _not_ going to be jealous of Stiles’ best friend.

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek says. Where the _hell_ is the bartender?

“You have feelings for him, don’t you?”

Derek snorts. “ _That_ ’s a stretch.” 

“You’re not a very good liar,” Scott tells him. “I’m not going to _tell him_ or anything, not unless he _needs_ to know. I just want what’s best for him. That’s all.”

“I don’t—” Derek stops himself, looking at his hands. “I’ll get over it. Eventually. He never has to know.” 

“You know, a few weeks ago, I thought he might shoot with you. Out of spite, or something. Just to prove that Peter was making a mistake. I was going to let him, even, until what happened at Laura’s. I thought you were in on it, but as soon as we walked into that room, I saw the look on your face, and I _knew_ you were as much a victim in it as he was. Maybe more. He’s not a bad guy, and he won’t hurt you on _purpose_ , but...be careful. I don’t know what he wants.” 

“That makes two of us,” Derek says, giving the bartender a nod of thanks for his drink. “And I wouldn’t...Peter does his thing, I do mine.”

Scott looks at him for a moment, then squeezes his shoulder. It looks like he’s about to say something, but he shakes it off and heads back to the table. Derek finishes his drink too fast, stomach spinning with disappointment.

Is it _wrong_ to wish that Scott had told him something comforting, like _Oh, Stiles is totally stupid over you, he just keeps these things close to his chest?_ Is it so wrong that he wants Stiles’ best friend to tell him to make the first move because Stiles won’t? But that would require Stiles to have feelings for him, and he doesn’t. That’s fine. That’s life. It happens.

It happens to other people. Because Derek never likes people. He doesn’t have to deal with this ever. This is _why_ he doesn’t do it. For the weight of reality in his feet and the bubble of hope lifting his head into the clouds, and the inevitability of being stretched thin between the two. 

He goes to the bathroom, thinking about splashing water on his face, waking himself up, but he ends up with his phone in his hand.

It’s stupid, it’s so stupid, but his thumb hits what it needs to and he’s making the call. 

“ _What’s up, dude?_ ” Stiles answers, flippant and at-ease and it just sends a shock to Derek’s gut. Nothing’s different for him. He’s completely unchanged.

“Nothing. Bored. How’s your essay?”

“ _Just finished it, like, twenty minutes ago, actually._ _Did they manage to talk you into coming out?_ ”

Derek looks at the bathroom door, wondering if he should lie. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”

“ _Where are you? It doesn’t sound like a club._ ”

“Bathroom,” Derek tells him, ducking down to see if anyone’s in the stalls. Nope.

“ _What are you wearing?_ ” 

Derek frowns, glancing at the door again. “Are you— I’m in a public place.”

“ _It’s a_ bathroom,” Stiles says with an exasperated noise. _“That doesn’t count. And I’m bored. Just lock the door._ ” 

“I can’t, it’s—” his phone buzzes against his ear, and he pulls it away. “Shit. Peter’s calling me.”

“ _Jesus, just ignore it. It can’t be anything good._ ”

Derek nods, realizes that Stiles can’t hear it. “You’re right,” he says, but his phone buzzes again. “Fuck, I’ll call you back.” He hears a protest, but his thumb is already hitting _accept_. “What do you want?” he asks.

“ _Just checking up on my favorite nephew. Is that so wrong?_ ”

“Fuck you, I don’t need this—”

“ _I wanted to let you know I’m agreeing to your request. I’ve heard the shoot was something of a success. I think it’s in everyone’s best interests if you do more shoots together. More than the next couple we have planned. What do you say?_ ” 

“It’s up to him. Not my decision.” And because he knows Peter, he says, “Don’t tell him. About my contract. It stays between us. It’s none of his business.”

“ _Of course. You’re family. I would never_.” 

Well, _that’s_ not exactly a guarantee. Awesome. 

“I’m having breakfast with Mom tomorrow,” Derek says because she’s pretty much the only person who can intimidate Peter.

“ _Fantastic. Give her my love._ ” It comes out sharp, and Derek knows he has the upperhand. 

“Is that all?”

“ _Yes, Derek. Thank you_.” 

Derek’s never heard him thank anyone without it sounding like a _fuck you_. It’s possibly an incredible skill, but a really fucking annoying one. 

The touchscreen of his phone doesn’t appreciate Peter, either, but it doesn’t crack, thankfully. 

He should call Stiles back.

But Derek can’t do it. He can’t have phone sex in a club bathroom, not with the person he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about for weeks. It feels wrong, cheap. Like a lie. He can't do it without talking to him about what they're doing first.

What he _should_ do is at least send Stiles a text that he can’t talk, but he’s something of a coward and looking at his phone twists the nerves in his gut. 

Instead of doing the smart thing or the brave thing, he sits not very close to Scott and doesn’t make eye contact with anyone for as long as possible. It’s not particularly effective, of course. Laura kicks him under the table, gently, points at her phone. He checks his own.

 **Talk to someone, buns.** **We’re here for you.**

He shakes his head at her. It’s time to do something else. This isn’t working.

“I’m gonna head,” he tells everyone. “Exhausted. See you.” He kiss Laura on the cheek and she grabs his arm.

“Come on. It can’t hurt.”

He shrugs. “I’m tired. I should be up early for Mom, anyway.”

“Let me take you home,” she tells him with the kind of look that means putting up a fight is useless.

“Fine. But I want to go.” 

She nods and turns to everyone else. “Well, it’s been a nice night. See you later. And _you_ ,” she says, pointing at Scott. “Get that cutie out of the house. For me, not for this loser. I do want to talk to him sometime.”

“What, you want to interrogate him some more?” Derek asks, rolling his eyes.

“No, I...I came off as a shitty host. I want to set things right. And he’s cute. Cora likes him. Well, she said he was a shithead, so I think we can take that as a good sign.” 

“I’ll let him know you don’t plan to kill him,” Scott says. 

“He _is_ a shithead,” Isaac says, “for the record. But not always. Just most of the time.”

“You’ve _got_ to get over the lasagna thing,” Erica tells him.

“It wasn’t _just_ the lasagna! It was my curry two months ago, and those _ribs_ , and the pizza from that little place that’s only open four days a week. The one with the name I can’t pronounce?” Isaac shakes his head. “And my _poptarts_. Who eats someone else’s poptarts? That’s just _wrong_.”

“We’re _leaving_ ,” Derek says. Roommate drama means Stiles drama means _Stiles_ means Derek needs to go somewhere else. Laura apparently gets that because she goes with him, draws him away.

In the car, on the way home, he watches her reflection in the window, the play of her eyes over the road as she drives. 

“How did you manage it?” he asks, gaze tracking the streetlights instead of her face. “Not fucking up, I mean.”

“You shitting me?” Laura snorts. “I fuck up all the time. I have a history of it. _Look at me_ , Derek. I fell for a woman who was pregnant, married, and my research director’s _wife_. I’m sorry, tell me again how I didn’t fuck up?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but she liked you _back_. And you’re happy now.”

“I mean, _yeah_ , but it’s not like we don’t fight all the time. It’s not like I don’t sometimes wonder if she or the kids would be better off without me. There’s no such thing as happy endings, Derek. It’s not like at some point, suddenly, you don’t have to work for it anymore. It doesn’t just _end_. You have to keep going. It’s easier with people you love, but it’s still _work_. If you want it, you have to work for it.” 

He bites his lip, hands clenching on his thighs. It’s _fear_. The thought of working to prove his worth to Stiles, like he’s _been_ doing, really, the thought of doing that for a long time, months or _years_ , even, and it never being enough, the thought of holding them together by sheer force of will when it’s not even what Stiles _wants_ , all that effort wasted, that’s _terrifying_. 

Laura takes his hand and squeezes, runs her thumb across his knuckles. 

“What if it’s not enough? What if I can’t be enough?” he asks. His voice sounds too-quiet and scratchy to his own ears. 

“If he’s not working for it too, he’s not worth it,” she tells him, eyes darting between him and the road. “If he’s not willing to put in the effort, then he doesn’t deserve you, okay?”

Derek snorts at that, rolls his eyes because the very idea makes him extremely uncomfortable.

“I’m serious, Buns. You’re smart, and you work hard, and you _devote_ yourself to things you care about, and you deserve someone who will love and respect you.” He crosses his arms over his chest, can’t look at her. “Look, I know genuine emotions scare you a little bit, but I need you to promise me that you won’t let some asshat walk all over you just because you care too much about him.”

“He’s not _like that_ ,” Derek tells her.

“Yeah? How do you know? Sure, he seems okay, but a lot of people _seem_ okay. You don’t know him that well. He’s twenty years old. _He_ doesn’t know what he wants. How are _you_ supposed to?” She sighs, settles into her seat a little. “Look, just be careful. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

She won’t ever have to. If something bad happens, she doesn’t have to know. No one does. 

“I’ll be here for you, though. If he fucks you over, I’ll kick his ass. Grade school-style. On the playground after recess. Motherfucker’s gonna wish he never touched your pokemon cards, you hear me?” He grins back at her because he’d forgotten about that particular incident. “Seriously, though.”

“I know,” he says. “I know you would.” 

“Good.”

 

Because she’s his big sister, she doesn’t help him at all to make his couch into a passable bed and she throws a pillow at his head, and because she’s his big sister, before she goes to bed, she hugs him too tight for a second longer than he can stand.

“You deserve happiness,” she tells him, and the words leave a weird sound in his ears.

 

He drops Laura off early in the morning because she’s on bag-lunch-and-carpool duty today and considers going for a run before meeting his mom. But then he’d have to shower and he’s not in the mood, really. 

One of these days, he’s going to have to find a hobby. Or a part-time job. Or something. Something that isn’t Netflix or fucking. 

The thought catches him and he stops in place, in the middle of his living room. 

Is this what being an adult is like?

Maybe that’s what he’ll do today. Find something to do with himself. It seems kind of productive, actually. 

For a moment there, he’s actually kind of impressed with himself.

 

His mom is waiting for him, even though he’s early. There are times she chooses to make dramatic entrances, but now, it’s not necessary. 

“Hi,” he says quietly, sliding into his seat.

“I ordered for you. Pancakes. Chocolate chip.”

Oh shit.

This isn’t going to be a good conversation. Not if she thinks he needs the chocolate chips. 

 _Fuck_.

“Calm down,” she tells him, taking a sip of her water. “I’m not here to ruin your life. I just want to make sure you’re doing what you need to do.”

She got him a coffee, thank God, and he busies his hands putting sugar in it. 

“I’ve told you how I met your father.”

Derek nods. “You saved him from being eaten by a bear because he was a shitty hiker and it was love at first sight and he begged you to marry him right then and there, blah blah blah. I’ve heard the story a million times.”

“Good. We do that on purpose, you know. Tell you a million times. Because of this moment, right now. So I can tell you that it didn’t happen quite like that.”

“What, was he actually a _passable_ hiker? Because I’ve seen him in the woods and I find that hard to believe.”

“Derek,” she says, taking his hands. “There was no bear.”

“Wait, _what?_ ” he asks, jerking his hands away. “But you told us in _detail_  about the bear. You get each other bear-themed gag gifts for your birthdays. He and River make bear claws at each other.” He mimics it, hands up like paws. “How can— If there was no bear, then why do we you a teddy bear for your anniversary every year, huh? _Why did we watch Grizzly Rage as a family?_ I don’t understand.”

Is this what betrayal feels like?

It _hurts_.

“We told you the bear story because the real story is a lot more complicated and there were things we didn’t want to have to tell you until you were _older_.” Her eyebrows go up to emphasize that point, and Derek’s stomach drops.

“It’s a weird sex thing, isn’t it? That’s why you couldn’t tell us.” He’s starting to feel sick. This is the opposite of everything he ever wanted. His childhood illusions of his parents storybook romance are shattering before his eyes and it hurts in the worst way.

“Laura’s always been very inquisitive, you know that,” she says. “We did our best to answer questions, but there’s only so much a five-year-old can understand. It would’ve gone right over your heads—”

“Please don’t tell me about having sex with anyone, _especially_ Dad,” he asks, _begs_. “I’m not ready for that. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

She rolls her eyes. “We met in college. Our friends were very _casual_ , and we were drawn to each other. It happens sometimes. He wanted more, a real relationship, and I didn’t, but we kept...you know. And then time happened, as it does. I went abroad for grad school and I got this call from one of my friends, and they told me he was getting serious with someone. I didn’t realize until that moment how much I cared about him.”

“And then, what?” Derek asks, seeing where this is going. “You get on a plane, you tell him how you feel, get married, and nine months later, Laura comes along?”

“ _No_ , actually.” She shrugs. “I didn’t tell him anything. I spent three months in Austria getting wasted and studying the Habsburg Empire and didn’t do anything about it. As far as I was concerned, he was going to be happy and I wasn’t a part of it. I’d made up my mind to be miserable and alone until I could find someone else.”

Derek looks down, at his coffee, and pretends that she has no idea that he’s essentially doing the same thing. 

“One day, there was a knock on my door and suddenly, he’s in my apartment and telling me that I’m the smartest idiot he’s ever met,” she says, smiling to herself. “Our friend told him what I was doing, so he figured that if I wasn’t going to get on a plane and do what needed to be done, _he_ would. Thank _God_ he did, otherwise we wouldn’t have had you three. But do you get what I’m saying?”

“Uh,” Derek twists the handle of his coffee cup, “true love will come find you and pull you out of a bender?”

His mom pinches the bridge of her nose, but she’s wearing a small smile. “ _No_ , Derek, what I’m saying is don’t be an idiot like I was. It was a sheer _miracle_ that things happened the way they did, and you can’t count on miracles. You have to make your own luck. If you love someone, if you _really love_ them, you have to tell them. It’s hard and it can be painful, but if you don’t, you’re putting everything on the line.”

“How do I do it?” he asks.

“With your pack behind you.” She seems to reconsider that after a second. “Not _literally_ , that could be kind of terrifying for him. But know that we love and support you. However it goes.”

The waitress comes by with their food, and never in his life has Derek been more glad for chocolate chip pancakes. 

“I can’t believe he lets you tell the bear story,” Derek says after his first bite.

“That’s called real love, sweetie.” She shrugs, grins. “And something kind of like that _did_ happen once. He was _convinced_ it was bear, only it turned out to be a raccoon and he almost burned down a national preserve trying to escape it. We have an agreement that I never tell _that_ story, particularly to the park ranger service. Also, he implied that his almost-fiancée’s parents were bear-like, so really, I saved him from _two_ bears. Three, if you count the raccoon.”

Chewing, he raises an eyebrow.

“I like to count the raccoon,” she admits with a not-quite-guilty smirk.

Derek frowns. “Wait, who knows?”

“Just you and Laura. Cora doesn’t need to know quite yet. We’ll wait until she has a romantic crisis of her own.”

“Something tells me,” he says, cutting a triangle out of his short stack, “that she won’t need it.”

“You never know.” 

“I should talk to him,” Derek says. The words make him feel heavy.

His mom nods. 

“I have a bad feeling about it.”

She leans forward, touches his hand. “I’d be worried if you didn’t. But if you don’t do it, you’ll never know. _He_ ’ll never know. And you’ll keep feeling like shit.”

“I’ll probably feel like shit anyway. It’s not going to go well.”

“He’s not a bad kid,” she says with a measured softness. “But if he doesn’t return your feelings and wants to keep sleeping with you anyway, let Cora know. She’ll handle it.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I can handle it _myself_ , you know.”

“You think you can tell someone you love that they’re treating you like shit? You think you can ask them to stop?” Her eyebrows stretch towards her hairline. “Because that’s one of the absolute hardest things a person can do.”

He can’t really look at her for that. Maybe Laura’s right. Maybe genuine emotions _do_ scare him. 

(They do. There’s never been anything more terrifying than someone with enough bravery to be honest about what they feel. A person with that kind of bravery could do anything.)

“Put that sour face away, honey. You’re a strong, independent alpha who don’t need no man.” 

Derek groans. “Did Peter show you the internet? I _told_ him that was a bad idea.”

“I’m up-to-date with pop culture, you know,” she says. “I know all about auto-tune and memes and cute kittens who can’t get into boxes.”

“ _Memes?_ Of _course_ he would show you memes.”

“And TubeYou.” She gives him a serious look. “I know _all_ the tricks.” 

He narrows his eyes. 

It’s not like her to mess up proper nouns. It’s suspicious.

“What did you find on youtube that you don’t want me to know about?”

She sighs. “There’s a video. Your interview. They uploaded it yesterday, I believe.” 

His face heats up and he covers with an embarrassed noise. “ _Mom_. You _watched_ it?”

“It was an _interview_ , Derek. Relax.” 

He _remembers_ things that were said, alright? That’s not anything he wants his mom to hear or know about _ever_. 

There’s a chance he might actually die out of embarrassment. 

“I can’t _believe_ you watched it.”

She sighs loudly. “It was just _talking_. And I just want to say, you look nice together.” She reaches over to pinch his cheek, smirking when he bats her hand away.

“I’m a _grown man_ ,” he tells her. “And this is _painful_. We’re never talking about this.” He seriously wants to puke or die or something. He's not sure he can look at her, even.

“See, this feeling right here?" she asks. "What could be worse than this?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” he says without hesitation.

“Good. Now you’re ready to talk to him. As horrible as it’ll feel right before you tell him, just remember this moment.” 

“That’s terrible.” He’s giving up on having a family because this _sucks_. “You’re my _mother_. There was...he mentioned _things_. I can’t believe you sat there and _listened_ to that.”

“Was it really _that_ bad?” She looks at him with the barest hint of shock, like she's _scandalized_. 

Well, then. 

“You didn’t actually watch it, did you?” he asks.

“Erica gave me the sparknotes.”

He sighs. “ _This_ is why I didn’t give my betas your number. But _no_ , you and Laura thought it was a good idea to be in contact with them. Just be straight with me: are you actually trying to ruin my life?”

“That depends,” she says, taking a sip of her water. “Are you _fifteen?_ ”

She has a point. 

Not that he’s going to admit it. 

“I needed to make a point,” she says, “and it’s been made. You can survive this. I know you can.” 

He sends Stiles a text:

**What are you doing today? I’d like to talk.**

“There’s my sweet boy,” his mom tells him. She squeezes his hand. “You can handle this. If he’s smart, he’ll be able to see your beauty. I promise.”

This is what he hates about his mom. How she can be manipulative one second and then talk about his _inner beauty_ the next. How she makes it hard to hate her.

His phone buzzes, saving him from coming up with a response.

 **Just woke up. Gimme an hour. You know where I live.** **apt 304**

Derek puts his phone in his pocket, stomach starting to twist. It’s starting. The beginning of the end. In an hour, Stiles is going to tell him that it’s just not what he’s looking for at the moment.

But in an hour, it won’t feel like a secret. He won’t have to hide it. He can say _I need to not see you for a while because your face makes me ache_. 

“I’m going to do this,” Derek says. “I’m ready.”

 

He drives.

In concentric circles, nearing Stiles in increments. 

It doesn’t feel like it’s enough space.

Each changing digital number on his car’s radio makes a sound in his head, like something heavy hitting the bottom of a dry well. He flinches at it, driving endlessly closer.

 

Until he’s staring at the White Castle, at the building. 

At the _out of service_ sign on the elevator.

At each step in front of him as he climbs the stairs. Slow, one at a time instead of two, and with each step he leaves a piece of himself behind. With each step, his body gets heavier.

He stares at the door and the thing is, he _knows_ , deep in his gut, that dying is easier than this. That it takes less effort. It’s the opposite of this. To stop making an effort instead of hurling his body at something that will break him. 

He needs a defibrillator or a stiff drink or a way out.

But what he has is the promise of slightly less weight on his chest when he lays down to sleep tonight. And that’s worth it. Probably.

Before he can think himself out of it, he knocks. Hard. Because he probably won’t be able to convince himself to do it a second time.

“ _Come in!_ ” he hears from inside, and he stands there for a second, staring at the door knob. 

It’s not that hard. 

He just turns it, gives the door a little push, and then he’s inside and this is happening.

It’s already happening. 

He twists, pushes, and he’s inside. 

Stiles looks like he was about to get the door. He’s frozen for a second, halfway through a step. 

“Hey. What’s up?”

Derek shrugs, afraid to lead with it. “Are the others here?” It’s for the best if they don’t hear this. _For his dignity_.

“Nope, turns out they had morning classes. You know how it is.”

Derek frowns. “Isn’t it a Sunday?”

“It’s a very progressive school,” Stiles tells him quickly. “So. You’re here.” 

“I’m here,” Derek confirms, jamming his hands into his pockets so Stiles can’t see them shaking. 

“Do you want to actually _come in_? I mean, you can loiter in the entryway all you want, it’s just kind of weird.” 

This is _awkward_.

“Living room?” Stiles asks quickly, waving Derek over. 

And they stand there for a weird moment. 

Stiles sits down first, arms across the back of the couch, but he drops them to his lap after a second. Then pats the seat next to him. 

“You wanted to talk,” he says. “Talking’s only half as weird when you’re sitting down.”

That’s pretty much true, so Derek sits down next to him, a little bit of space between for his sanity. 

“So....”

Shit, Derek was the one with the request to talk, so it’s his responsibility to get this going. What’s the best way to say _I think I might be halfway in love with you_?

Probably not like that.

 _Definitely_ not like that.

“What did you want to talk about?” Stiles asks after he’s been quiet for too long.

“You know. _Things_.” Wow, that’s just _sad_. “Things that have to do with, you know—” he gestures vaguely at them both “—with _things_.”

He should probably get up and leave. That’s the only way to salvage this. He’s just _fucking up_. It’s not even that fucking hard to say, is it? People say it every day. It shouldn’t be this fucking hard. 

“That’s good,” Stiles says. “I mean, it’s a good idea to talk about things.” He makes a gesture at them both, and maybe he’s _sort of_ on the same page? “I wanted to talk about _things_.”

“Yeah?” 

Does he _know?_ Did Scott tell him? 

Well, maybe this way, Derek won’t have to actually say it.

This could be _good_.

“Yeah, you know. There’s some stuff, I guess. Intense stuff. That we should talk about. You know, lay it all out on the table. That sort of thing.”

He wants Derek to say it. That’s what this is. He’s getting the conversation going, but he wants Derek to actually say it. This isn’t going to be pretty. But he can do it, right? His mother thought he could, and he can be brave for just this moment. 

His mouth opens.

No words come out. 

He closes it again, then tries anew.

“How are you?” his mouth asks, and it sounds rusty, metallic in the air.

“ _Fine_.” It’s long, but pointed and sharp, like it comes out of Stiles’ narrowed eyes. 

That look holds him in place, nails him down to this fixed point of weakness and failure. He’s sitting here in a place that smells like Stiles with hands that are too large and too warm and he can’t fucking _speak_. It gets all choked up in his throat, like he can’t let something meaningful out. 

“Oh, _fuck it_ ,” Stiles bites out as he zooms in and lands on Derek’s mouth. It’s a hard kiss, teeth locked tight behind their lips, the sort of thing that could probably bruise. Derek’s _shocked_ is the thing. This wasn’t something he’d imagined happening, and surprise makes him still.

Stiles jerks back like he’s touched a hot stove, eyes wide. 

“Shit, did I read that totally wrong? I’m sorry, _fuck_ , that was _way_ inappropriate,” he blurts. One of his hands moves towards Derek in a comforting gesture, but he yanks it back before it makes contact. 

“No, that was,” Derek says, rolling the possibilities over his tongue, “sort of what I was getting at.” Stiles relaxes in a _whoosh_ , a hand going to his chest.

“Thank _God_ , dude, I thought I’d...yeah. Sorry. I mean, it’s okay, though, right? Just to be clear.”

Derek nods. It’s _very_ okay, and maybe somewhat unexpected, but Stiles _has_ seemed to _not_ _hate_ him lately. Apparently, it’s not a longshot. 

“You didn’t call me back last night,” Stiles says as he climbs onto Derek’s lap. “I waited for an hour and a half, you know. That wasn’t very nice of you.” His tone is somewhat teasing, but he’s telling the truth. He traces the curve of Derek’s cheekbone with a thumb.

“Peter,” Derek says, breath catching in his throat when Stiles leans down and follows the path of his thumb with his lips, “put me in a bad mood.”

“Understandable.” Stiles’ breath hits his cheek with a softness that makes something in Derek’s chest settle. His hands fit neatly on Stiles’ waist, like they belong there. It feels _right_ to touch him. Easy

Like kissing the minty toothpaste out of his mouth. Stiles’ body fits in his arms like they were created as a whole then split in two. Their bodies fit like interlocking puzzle pieces, like water in a cup, like a heart in his chest, like a knife in his heart, like the air in his lungs, like a fist to his stomach, like a bruise under his skin, like the skin stretched white over his knuckles. Love and the bottomless fear of love spun together in a mess of vertigo and shared breath. 

“This is ridiculous, you know,” Stiles says against his lips. “It doesn’t feel like this.” His nose nudges against Derek’s, like he can’t move away. Derek _gets_ that. 

“Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be.” 

Stiles snorts softly, fingers twisting a little in the shorter hair behind Derek’s ears. “I don’t really think I’m _supposed_ to want you like this.” 

Derek doesn’t have anything to say to that that isn’t impossibly heavy, so he rises up and kisses Stiles instead. Soft, the way he wishes the words would feel to him. It’s not enough, probably, but Derek’s working on building up his courage to say it out loud. Maybe before he leaves he’ll be able to. 

When Stiles slides in tight against him, the kiss turns dirty. It’s not their fault. They just haven’t gotten all the sex out of their systems. It’s the honeymoon phase, and Derek kind of hopes it’ll never end. That they’ll never get enough of each other. That every time they kiss, it’ll thrill him like this. Like it’s making him breathe. 

Their bodies have a natural rhythm, that’s what it has to be. Their molecules are vibrating at the same frequency or something because they move against each other unconsciously in sync. 

Stiles leans back, rocking against him like he _knows_ that he’s got some sort of superpower to make Derek’s dick react to him like he’s fifteen all over again. He can probably feel it, through their jeans. (Jeans are terrible, he wants to destroy them as an article of clothing.)

“I think you’ve ruined me for everyone else,” Stiles says, half frustrated, half confessional. “You’ve blown the competition out of the water.”

That pleases Derek in a way he didn’t know he could feel. “ _Good_.”

Stiles snorts and grinds down against him, makes Derek bite his lip against the pleasure even though he thinks his zipper might need to be surgically removed.

“I bet I could blow something else,” he says almost on accident. Well, it’s not that much of an accident. For some reason, the fact that he’s never had Stiles’ dick in his mouth just seems absurd to him. 

“Well, it’s not like I’m going to say _no_ to that.” Stiles’ grin is contagious and beautiful. Derek traces it with his thumb for a second, transfixed, then pulls away when he realizes he’s lingering. 

“Come on,” he says, tapping Stiles’ hip. “ _Up_.”

Stiles hops up quickly, backing away. He glances towards a hallway, but doesn’t say anything about relocating. When Derek guides him, he lets himself be moved, the couch hitting the backs of his knees. Derek doesn’t make him sit, mostly because this is a better angle for his neck and it gives Stiles a little more leverage. 

On his knees, he noses at Stiles’ groin, feels him hard beneath his cheek, smells arousal and precome through the denim. His hands slide up the backs of Stiles’ thighs, and he smiles when Stiles grabs his hair.

Without further ado, Derek opens Stiles’ jeans and pulls them down as far as they’ll go. He’s wearing briefs, nice ones. Did he know they’d end up here? Does he know how much Derek wants him? Or was he just _hopeful?_ Is he optimistic the way Derek doesn’t have the courage to be?

He mouths at Stiles’ dick through the cotton. If he wanted, he might be able to get Stiles off without even taking him out. It’s not what he wants to do _now_ , but sometime in the future, he could. They have forever, after all. 

“How do you want it?” Derek asks, looking up at Stiles, seeing how dark his eyes look from this angle. “Hard? Or slow?” He punctuates it with a kiss, brushing his lips against the fabric because he can hear Stiles’ pulse, can feel it all the way down to his own cock. 

“Whatever you want,” Stiles answers. So, _hard_.

Derek drags the elastic of Stiles’ briefs down with his teeth, just enough to let the sticky head of his dick pop out. “I’ll let you fuck my mouth,” he says. “I like it. I can take it.”

“Yeah?” 

His reply is a nod as he tugs Stiles’ underwear down. 

All in all, Derek’s had very limited experience with Stiles’ dick. Well, with looking at it. In-person. Because a computer screen doesn’t count. Up close, well, his mouth waters. He’s not sure if that’s because it’s attached to Stiles or what, but the sight of him is heady. And he isn’t shaved smooth, which Derek prefers. The weird prepubescent thing just isn’t something he’s into.

But he’s staring, which isn’t really the _point_.

He licks a line up Stiles’ shaft, tracing the vein with his tongue, and gives the head a wet kiss before sucking him into his mouth. Stiles tastes good, tastes right. It might be a chemical thing, but he doesn’t care, not with his mouth full and Stiles groaning above him. 

He trained himself out of his gag reflex early on, thankfully, but it always feels a little strange in his throat when he sinks all the way down. It pulls a little noise out of Stiles, and he knows how to suck right, how to twist his tongue to make Stiles swear. 

One of Stiles hands is rigidly flat against his scalp, so Derek finds the other and puts it in his hair, looks up at him to give him permission. It’s a thing for him. Painfully obvious when Stiles pulls and Derek moans around his cock, his own jerking against his zipper. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect, you know that?” Stiles pants, tugging a little at his hair while Derek bobs down on him. He pulls off, stroking him slow while he adjusts his position a little, spreading his knees in a way that pulls his jeans tight over his throbbing cock, tight enough that if he can rock into it. It hurts a little, but it's a good hurt.

“Fuck my mouth,” he says, sinking back down. Waiting, he looks up. Stiles visibly swallows, nods, and thrusts gently into Derek’s mouth. It’s tentative, and if Stiles doesn’t like to be on this end of it, he understands why, but Derek wants it. And he can handle it. So he rolls his eyes and pulls Stiles in by the hips, hard, showing him what’s okay. 

That’s all that needs to be done, apparently, because Stiles tightens his fingers in Derek’s hair and matches his example. 

It maybe hurts a little and Derek has to remind himself to breathe through his nose, but he likes it like this. Likes the feeling of being possessed and likes Stiles all the more for his hesitation, honestly. It makes him feel cared for, and the noises Stiles can’t hold back make him feel needed. 

And it gets him hot, really. His fingers clutch at Stiles’ thighs and he can’t stop himself from rocking against the front of his jeans in rhythm with Stiles’ thrusts. He probably looks desperate, shameless, but Stiles’ eyes are squeezed shut. 

“Jesus, Derek, I can’t—” Stiles cuts off with something like a whine, and Derek does his best to suck as Stiles’ hips stutter. He can feel come at the back of his throat, wishes he could taste it, but the pulse of Stiles on his tongue sends him over the edge. It’s the kind of orgasm that shakes him, wracks him quietly, like it’s not tearing him apart. 

Stiles’ cock slips out of his mouth, softening slowly, and he falls back onto the couch with groan. Instinctively, Derek nudges forward, coming between his spread legs, rubbing his cheek against the inside of Stiles’ upper thigh.

Sighing, Stiles runs a hand through Derek’s hair, petting, almost. It’s about as much as Derek can stand right now. This idea of curling up and maybe napping is _very_ appealing. 

“Shit, I suck, don’t I?” Stiles says with a groan. His head is lolling against the back of the couch. “Give me a minute and I’ll help you out.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to,” Derek tells him. Really, he’s trying not to think about the jizz in his pants. 

“You kidding? What kind of fuckbuddy would I be if I didn’t return the favor?”

Derek’s breath catches in his throat and he forces himself not to open his eyes. 

Of course. 

Of fucking course. 

He should _not_ be surprised by this. It shouldn’t hit him like a train, make him want to lay down on the floor and never get up. He should have _known_. Of _course_ Stiles wouldn’t _actually_ want to be with Derek. Why would he think otherwise?

Because he wanted too much and he let himself be hopeful and _this is why_ he doesn’t do that. 

“Gimme two seconds to recover and I’ll be all up on that,” Stiles says, yanking him into the immediate situation.

“No,” Derek says, lifting his head up. “Nothing for you to do.” He hates himself for how pleased it makes him that Stiles’ dick twitches at that. 

Stiles shakes his head, throwing an arm over his eyes. “How are you even _real_ , dude?” He sighs, moves his arm out of the way, and looks down at Derek. “Well, I’d be shitty if I didn’t help you clean up. Bathroom. Come on.” 

Derek nods weakly, feeling like he’s not really in his body anymore. It’s weird how weightless shock and despair make him when they’re mixed with endorphins. 

He doesn’t even really know where his body is until he sees tile all around him. There’s a hand at the curve of his spine and he looks at the shower. Showers help. Maybe he’ll feel less like punching himself in the face if he showers. Usually that helps. 

It’s not his shower, though. This isn’t his bathroom. He doesn’t live here. There are four scents in this room and none of them are his own. 

“You wanna shower, don’t you?” Stiles asks. When Derek nods, he smirks. “Alone, or...?” 

“I don’t want to be alone,” he says immediately and hates himself for it, but Stiles seems to take it as less heavy than he means it. Good. Maybe he can survive this after all. 

Stiles turns on the water, shakes off his wet hand, and Derek hurries to get his shirt over his head. 

It feels weird. They’re undressing alone in front of each other, and there’s no show to it. It feels like there’s a wall, and there is. It’s called Derek’s Fucking Stupid-Ass Emotions. 

But Stiles walks right through it. He’s quicker than Derek, ends up undoing Derek’s jeans for him. It’s good because his fingers feel kind of numb and his shoes had been enough trouble as it is, and he feels almost like a child. He’s apparently got the emotional intelligence of one, since he couldn’t fucking see that Stiles is _not_ into him, not really. Not the way he wants. 

“It’s hot,” Stiles says, one hand in the shower, as Derek pulls down his underwear. 

He’s going to pretend this is the first time he’s come in his pants because of Stiles. It’s a good lie. He doesn't need to be reminded of his failures right now. 

“Come on,” Stiles tells him. He grabs Derek’s hand and pulls him into the shower, shuts the glass door behind them. 

Derek looks around. “It’s kind of small.” That’s an understatement. Derek would probably be uncomfortable in it on his own, maybe because his shower has spoiled him, but it’s _small_.

“Unfortunately, I know for a fact that it can hold three.” Stiles blinks, water in his eyelashes, a mist spraying in his face from the stream between them. “And how much room do we need, really?” he asks, pulling Derek closer, all the way in so he’s pressing Stiles back against the wall. Warm water hits his back and shoulder, but at least it’s not in his face.

Stiles pulls him down for a kiss, and it hurts a little, aches, because it’s foreplay. Because it’ll always be foreplay. Never just because. 

He kisses Stiles like that’s the way to find what he’s missing, like if he loses himself in it, he’ll find that Stiles cares more than he’s letting on. Maybe Derek won’t have to feel this impossible loneliness, like he’s not even here. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be looking for himself in someone else. 

Resting his forehead against Stiles’, he takes a second to breathe. He just needs a minute. 

Stiles smiles up at him, thumb tracing along the tendons in his neck. “Keep kissing me like that, and I’ll be ready to go again pretty soon,” he says, eyes darting down to Derek’s mouth. “You up for it? I try not to even be _awake_ this early, so I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to.”

If Derek doesn’t, they’ll shower and he’ll leave. Because fuckbuddies don’t stick around. And it’s not like he _doesn’t want_ Stiles. Really, he’ll take him any way he can get him. 

“I’m up for it,” he says softly. 

Stiles backs him against the the other wall of the shower, putting himself between the water and Derek. “Awesome. Because otherwise it was going to be super awkward later when I have to jerk off because seeing you naked makes me crazy.” He kisses Derek wet and open, tasting like tap water. His tongue is quick, and it teases the aching pieces of Derek into place. Being with him feels _right_. It doesn’t really matter that it’s wrong, that they’re not on equal footing. Maybe this could be enough. 

While Derek’s distracted, Stiles gets ahold of of his bodywash. He runs soapy hands down Derek’s ribs. After this, he’ll smell more like Stiles. The thought’s kind of a rush, the hum of possession running through him fast and sure. 

One of Stiles’ hands slips between them, wraps slickly around his cock and works him all the way to being hard. He’s so attuned to the feel of Stiles’ body, it doesn’t take much. 

Stiles breaks the kiss, or attempts to, because he dives back in a couple times, eyes almost shut. It’s ridiculous how gorgeous he is. And he’s chosen _Derek_. There’s a lot of other people he could have in his shower instead, but he wanted Derek, and he seems to want Derek for a bit longer. Even if it’s just sex. Derek’s an adult. He can handle it.

“Turn around,” Stiles says, kissing the corner of his mouth. 

Maybe if Derek wanted to, he could work on changing this thing where he instinctively does what Stiles tells him to, but it’s only ever brought him good things.

The tile isn’t _cold_ , but it’s not exactly warm against Derek’s chest. But he barely notices it when Stiles mouths at his shoulder, up to his neck. His fingers skim over Derek’s sides, slow and careful. Derek breathes deeply, forehead resting against the tile. 

“I could touch you forever,” Stiles says against his skin. The words, his breath, make Derek shudder, goosebumps rising up his back. Stiles wraps himself around him like he’s trying to keep him warm, like that’s the problem. 

One of his hands slips down the curve of Derek’s back to his ass, teasing, like he needs to try harder to get Derek all keyed up on him or something. The other hand takes Derek’s cock in a loose grip, and Derek’s not ready for him to drag this out. He’s afraid of forgetting the lay of the land here. It could happen all too easily. 

Derek presses back, eyes opening in surprise when the tip of Stiles’ finger slips into him. It doesn’t press in deep, just the first knuckle, crooked and gentle. Stiles’ teeth drag against the junction of his neck and shoulder. His skin is already overly sensitive, just from the anticipation, but that’s almost too much. He wants to shake, and maybe he does, it’s just that he doesn’t think Stiles knows what he does to him. There’s no way he could know.

“Hard or slow?” Stiles asks, and Derek can feel his smirk against his skin.

“Fast,” he answers, reaching down to show Stiles the kind of grip he wants. “If you think you can handle it.” It’s deliberate. He knows that Stiles will get wrapped up in trying to rise to that challenge, and he’s afraid of what he might let slip otherwise.

Stiles twists his finger in deeper, and Derek bites his lip against it. He likes this, the warm sort of pleasure of being fingered. Maybe it’s a good thing that they’re fuckbuddies. He can ask Stiles to do this slower sometime, to take him apart with those long, sinful fingers. Stiles would do it, seems to like this almost as much as Derek does. 

It’s hard to get sad about it if they’re in the middle of fucking. Maybe they should just fuck all the time, then. Maybe that’s the solution. So Derek never has to feel anything but endorphins and Stiles’ skin. 

Before long, Stiles’ hands leave him and Derek hears the flick of the bodywash’s cap. Then one of Stiles’ hands is on his hip.

“Close your legs a little more,” Stiles says in his ears, and Derek does. A second later, he feels Stiles’ cock slick against him, sliding low, between his legs, pressing against his balls. 

Alright, then. Well, that’s not _exactly_ what he was expecting. 

 _This_ is something Derek’s never given much thought to, but he’ll probably end up jerking off to it later.

He angles his body for it better, just to feel more of Stiles against his ass, and gets rewarded with a hand back on his cock. Stiles sucks a mark on the back of his neck, tongue laving against him in a way that makes Derek’s eyes roll back into his head. When he turns his head, presses his cheek against the tile, Stiles moves in to kiss his mouth, but the angle’s off, the little difference in their height not working in their favor. 

It’s sad. Stiles isn’t even really fucking him and his whole body feels flayed open and raw, almost overly sensitive and pretty much hanging over the edge. 

Stiles is determined to kiss him, apparently, because he hooks his chin over Derek’s shoulder, close enough for their lips to just about meet. It changes the angle, though, so Stiles can’t slip all the way between his thighs, hitting a spot just behind his balls instead, and Derek’s unable to hold back a noise. Stiles’ grip on his cock tightens a little, and his knees go rubbery, clawing at the tile as the orgasm shakes his bones. 

As his legs tremble, Stiles licks into his open mouth, jerking a last, shuddery drop of come out of his cock. He sags a little, body humming like a live wire until Stiles’ hand moves to his hip.

Stiles kisses up his jaw, sucking behind the hinge of it. He’s letting Derek get his bearings, he knows that, and he’s only half-grateful. Part of him wishes Stiles would just use him shamelessly, so he could have a reason to feel this is wrong, that it’s bad for him, but that’s not what Stiles is doing. And Derek can’t figure out why for the life of him.

He reaches around behind him and finds Stiles’ ass, pulls him in tight against his body. Stiles gets the message. Fingers digging into Derek’s hips, he fucks between Derek’s thighs. His mouth brushes against the back of Derek’s neck, breath coming in fast, wet pants. 

“ _Derek_ ,” he breathes, one hand sliding up Derek’s chest on the left side. And then he’s saying Derek’s name over and over, like it’s the best song he’s ever heard. Derek’s head drops and he sees Stiles’ cock disappearing between his thighs, and _fuck_ , he’s going to remember that later. He tenses, squeezes his legs together a little tighter, and his name turns into a groan in Stiles’ mouth. 

It’s too bad Derek can’t see his face. He’s beautiful when he comes, the way his mouth falls open, slack with pleasure. 

Stiles pulls away, enough that Derek turns around to see water falling across his face. Derek interrupts the stream with a hand and Stiles eyes open. He grins. 

“I think I get why the three musketeers do it in here,” Stiles says. “I mean, I’ve tried jerking off, but it’s no fun with only the wall to lean against. But it’s nice with someone else.”

Derek doesn’t let that affect him. “This thing is tiny, you know that?”

“Are you saying yours is bigger?” He backs Derek up against the wall, getting out of the spray a little. There’s a question in his eyes, and Derek can at least read that it’s not about the size of his shower. 

“I guess you’re going to have to judge that for yourself,” Derek tells him. “But yes. Probably by a lot. I’m getting claustrophobic in here.” 

Stiles laughs, smacks his chest weakly. “Well, I’m _sorry_ my shower isn’t up to your standards, then, _jerk_.” 

“You should be.” 

It’s easy to be like this, shockingly so. 

Easier, maybe, than kissing him, but it’s starting to feel like this is what his mouth is for. For teasing his lips with a little nip or two. The way his hands might be for holding Stiles close. 

Stiles leans back, smacks a wet kiss on his mouth, and looks Derek in the eyes. “Well, buddy, I think we’re going to have to get to the _shower_ part of this adventure.” 

“Which shampoo is yours?” Derek asks. He could figure it out by scent, if he wanted, but asking is faster.

“Blue one.” 

Derek squirts some into his hands, works up a lather, and rubs it into Stiles’ hair. Stiles scowls at him until Derek starts massaging it in, and then he pretty much goes limp. Moans. 

“Oh my _God_ , that is _unreal_ ,” he whines, pressing up into Derek’s hands. Kneading the pads of his fingers into Stiles’ scalp, he watches with a sweet curl of pleasure as Stiles melts for him. His eyes fall shut, mouth falls open, and he’s _beautiful_. 

And then there’s a hard knock on the bathroom door. 

Stiles jumps, flails, knocking over someone’s conditioner, and Derek goes very, very still. He hadn’t heard over the water, hadn’t been listening for—

“Hurry up, I gotta take a leak!” Isaac barks through the door. “If you’re not out in two minutes, I’m peeing in your orange juice, asshole!”

“We’ll be out!” Stiles yells back, and Derek hears Allison ask _we?_ in the hallway. “Fuck, come on,” Stiles urges, scrubbing the shampoo out of his hair as fast as he can. 

“Which towels are yours?” Derek asks, looking down to make sure he’s clean.

“Green. Back of the door, not the rack.” 

Derek nods, edges to the shower door, then stops. “I thought you said they were at class?”

“I didn’t know how long you’d be here. Bought them breakfast to get them out. Now _go_ ,” Stiles says. He gets the last bit of suds out of his hair and directs the water onto the wall to get a stray bit of jizz. Derek steps carefully so he doesn’t slip or drip on their clothes too much and grabs the towels. 

Dropping one on the sink for Stiles, he dries himself as fast as he can, mostly his legs, so he can put on his jeans. There’s come in his underwear, which is _gross_ , so he’s not putting them on, but his only alternative is to shove them in his pocket. That’s also gross, but he’ll just make a quick escape so Scott or Isaac don’t sniff it out. Not like he has any reason to stick around, anyway.

By the time he’s dressed, the water’s off and Stiles is yanking up his jeans. They’re looser than Derek’s, so it looks like less of a labor, but they stick to his legs where he didn’t dry off completely. His shirt is only _just_ on when Derek opens the door. 

He breezes past Isaac, out of the hallway, and sees Allison, sitting at the table. She gives him a knowing smile, but doesn’t say anything, thank God. 

Scott, however, does. 

“Way to go, man,” he says, clapping Derek on the shoulder. Derek shakes his head sharply, and Scott’s face crumples into something a lot like sympathy. 

“I’ve gotta go.”

He’s out of there as fast as he can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the dubcon is of the emotional variety.   
> one character sleeps with another under the impression that they have an emotional relationship and does not realize until after that they're not on the same page. the character then willingly has further sexual contact and does, in fact, want it and makes the decision to do it, but acknowledges it as a bad idea, emotionally. the other character is entirely unaware.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi do not listen to "wrecking ball" during the last 20k of this fic bc ouch

Stiles is toweling off his head in the hallway when he hears the front door slam closed. Confused, he heads out into the main room and looks around.

“Did he just leave?” he asks, spotting neither hide nor hair of Derek.

“Like a bat out of hell,” Allison says. She takes a sip out of a styrofoam coffee cup. 

“Huh.”

All of a sudden, he feels very, very lost. 

“What just _happened_ , dude?” Scott asks. He flips a chair around at the table and sits in it, leaning over the back. “I thought you wanted us gone so we wouldn’t have to witness you two try to talk. Pretty sure that doesn’t mean group showers.”

“I have no idea what’s going on.” Stiles frowns, dropping his towel over his shoulder. “Did Isaac shank him or something? I’m so confused.” 

Allison shakes her head and pats the empty chair next to her. “So when did you change your mind on the _it’s too early in the morning to have sex_ front?”

“Pretty much as soon as he walked through the door,” Stiles admits because he can be honest with them.

“ _Dude_. Come on. Did you at least talk to him about the shoot?”

Stiles winces. “ _Technically_ , no. It was super awkward, actually. He wanted to talk, I think? But it didn’t happen. We sat down and, like, is the whole werewolf scent thing sexually transmitted?” He looks at Allison for that one. “Because he just smells, like, _really good_. Maybe it’s because the last time I smelled him, my dick was in him? But _wow_.” 

Scott’s got his elbows on the table, face buried in his hands like he wants to be somewhere, anywhere, else. It’s not very encouraging. 

“It happens,” Allison tells him with a little smile. “It’s not a werewolf thing, don’t worry about it. But so, what? You jumped him before he got a chance to speak?”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles defends. “Not even. I gave him a chance, but he seemed to be having trouble, so I gave him another chance. _Then_ I jumped him. And he was totally on board, by the way. _Twice_. And we pretty much agreed that sex is something we have sometimes. Fuckbuddies is a good thing for us.”

“You—” Scott gives him a despairing look. “I thought you were going to talk about the _shoot_. You know, since you won’t talk to _us_ about it.”

Stiles shrugs. “There’s not much to say.”

“I heard a very different story last night from Boyd,” Isaac says as he walks into the room. He stops, looking at them. “Are we staging an intervention right now? Because I think after last Thursday, it would be pretty hypocritical to ban him from shower sex.”

“It’s not an intervention,” Allison tells him. “We’re just trying to figure out why Derek bolted. And why Stiles is pretending that he didn’t have life-affirming sex with him yesterday.” 

“I wouldn’t call it _life-affirming_.” 

“Neither did Erica,” Isaac says. “ _She_ called it, and I quote, _making love_. After he ditched last night, she waxed poetic about it. It was awful.” 

Scott looks at Stiles with the puppy eyes, the ones that make Stiles think he should re-evaluate pretty much all of his decisions. (Scott actually has an entire _arsenal_ of different variations of puppy eyes, because he might actually _be_ a puppy, and it’s not fair.)

“It wasn’t—” Stiles grimaces, not even able to voice the words, “ _what you said_. It was sex. Very good sex, but just sex. That’s the job. And yes, I’m aware that just now wasn’t technically on-the-job fucking, but consider it _rehearsing_. We’re actors, after all.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott says, holding him in place with a look as he takes Stiles’ hands in his own, “we do _pornography_.”

“Sex work is real work,” Stiles chirps at him because Scott’s said it to him a million times. “And if there’s not even a _little_ bit of acting involved, then Jersey Shore was unscripted.”

Isaac leans back against the wall. “I think,” he says, “that you’re grasping at straws.”

“I know he’s your _alpha_ or whatever, but I’m telling you: Derek and I? Not anything but sex. I’m about five hundred percent sure on that point.”

“And you’re perfectly happy with that?” Scott asks. 

Stiles shrugs because he’s not _even_  letting himself entertain the possibility of anything else with Derek. That’s a _big_ no. As long as he doesn’t think about it, he doesn’t have to want it, and really, he’s pretty fucking satisfied as it is. It’s good. There’s no reason to fuck it up. 

“I’m perfectly happy with that,” Stiles answers. 

Scott seems to be somewhat unsatisfied, but it seems like he believes it. Which he should. Because it’s not a lie. No matter what Stiles thinks in the heat of the moment. 

Everyone knows that _I love you_ ’s during sex don’t count.

Especially if they’re not even said out loud.

It doesn’t mean the same thing then. It’s more like _I love how you make me feel_ or _I love your body and all the beautiful things it does_. It might be Derek-specific, but it’s not weighted the same way. _I love you_ the rest of the time, that’s a promise of something more to come, and that’s _not_ what he’s about. He doesn’t know what he’s doing for the holidays, let alone his less-than-immediate future. 

(Actually, he kind of knows because the four of them have a consumer-holiday Christmas that’s slightly more thought-out than the half-assed hanukkahs he had with his dad after his mom died, but he doesn’t know the specifics so it _counts_.)

“So do you know when you’re shooting with Derek again?” Allison asks.

Stiles shakes his head and pulls up his email on his phone. “I bet Peter set the next one up already. He called Derek last night. Let me check.” 

It takes a moment for his email to load, but he does, in fact, have a new message from Peter, which he reads with a sort of unwarranted confusion.

“What is it?” Scott asks. 

“That’s...” he looks up, reminding himself that it’s not _that_ weird. “Uh, no, I’ve got a shoot in a couple days. Not with Derek, though. That’s not weird, right? That Peter talked to him yesterday and we don’t have a shoot together. I mean, it’s not like he asked to not work with me anymore. Or we wouldn’t have fucked today, right?”

“It’s not like you signed on to only shoot with him from now on,” Isaac says with a shrug. 

Scott frowns, leaning forward. “Just to be clear, you _didn’t_ , did you?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Not _even_.” This shoot’s no big deal, really. “It’s not that weird. Maybe he’s planning our next shoot for a while from now. It’s been a while since I did a threesome, anyway.” 

“Who’s it with?” Isaac asks. “You haven’t shot with Danny in a while, have you?” 

“No, it’s, uh,” he frowns, then shrugs. “Well, it’s Ethan and Aiden.” 

“ _That_ ’s weird,” Scott says.

“Yeah, I thought Aiden only did girls?” Allison asks. 

Isaac shakes his head, making a face. “Pretty sure you’re going to go to hell if you do it.” 

“I don’t think it’s, like, _incestuous_ , you know?” Stiles scrolls through the email, nodding, says, “Yeah, it doesn’t look like they get all up on each other. Just on me.”

Isaac rolls his eyes. “ _Still_ weird.” He has a brother, Stiles thinks. Or did. They’ve never talked about him, he’s just caught passing comments, so he’s not actually sure his brother’s alive.

“Seriously, Stiles, would you do a scene with me even if we weren’t directly fucking each other?” Scott asks. 

“That’s _kind of_ different,” Allison says. “You’ve only been related for, what, a few years?”

“More,” Stiles corrects. “Seven. That’s a solid third of our lives. And no, I would not, because that’s just not how we roll, but maybe that’s how _they_ roll? Some people do that. It’s their business.”

“I feel like Danny would’ve mentioned it,” Isaac says. Scott raises an eyebrow at him. “What? We talk.”

“Yeah, but Danny only _shoots_ with Ethan,” Stiles says. “He’s probably never even seen them together.”

Scott makes a face, but before he can say anything, Allison cuts in. “Where’ve you _been_? They’re _solid_. For months now.”

“Wait, but I know for a _fact_ that Danny shoots with other guys.” 

“Oh, they’re like me. They’re not _sexually_ monogamous,” Isaac says. “Sometimes they do share, though. They’re not jealous people. They just moved in together last week, you know.” 

This is just getting weirder and weirder by the second.

“Wait, if they’re so serious, then why doesn’t Ethan go out with us?”

“He bartends at that lesbian bar near campus on weekends,” Scott says, “and we _tried_ to go the other week, but everyone was busy. Seriously, dude, catch up.”

“Why did I not know any of these things were things?” Stiles asks, massaging his temples. 

“You’ve been pretty much obsessing about Derek for, well, longer than anyone’s been comfortable with,” Allison tells him sweetly.

Stiles frowns. “I haven’t been _obsessing_. There have been things I’ve been dealing with that are occasionally Derek- _related_ , but...”

No one buys that. _Stiles_ doesn’t really buy that.

“Sex is a fundamental biological drive,” Stiles concedes. "That's all there is to it."

"And now that you're actually having it, I take it you're going to pretty much act exactly the same?" Isaac asks. One of his eyebrows crooks upward on the same side as his smirk. 

“I have no idea what you’re saying and I’m not going to respond to it,” Stiles tells him with a lofty look. “Look, I’m tired. I woke up early. I’m going to take a nap.”

“You woke up _early_ because of your booty call,” Allison says. “If you get laid, I think you revoke your complaining privileges.” 

“It wasn’t a _booty call_.” Three sets of skeptical eyes bore into him. “It was a _text_ ,” he explains. 

Their looks don’t change. 

“Screw you guys, I’m going to nap my ass off, so you can sit here being as judgey as you want, but I’m going to be working on my accumulated sleep debt.” 

He heads into his room, tosses his towel on his basket of clean-but-not-put-away laundry, and throws himself onto his bed. Sleep really _does_ feel like a good idea. If Derek hadn’t left, he might’ve pitched the idea of a nap to him. Or not. He’s not sure what’s covered by the blanket of _fuckbuddies_. But he’d find out. 

Napping with Derek would be _nice_. Cuddling is always a plus. Stiles doesn’t get to cuddle much, not sober. Derek seems like a good cuddler. Well, not really. He seems like he’d be kind of stiff at first, maybe, then get super cuddly when he starts to fall asleep. And then he’d be a _great_ cuddler. He has a very cuddly body. He has muscle, sure, but not the kind that’s uncomfortable. Stiles knows this from the thirty seconds of almost-cuddling immediately following their shoot, and really, they should make post-fuck cuddles a permanent thing. 

And then his bed would smell like Derek. That’s not a creepy thing. Allison said. It’s just that thinking about it, laying in his sun-warmed bed, it would be about ten million times better if he were halfway wrapped around Derek right now. 

He makes do with his pillow and frowns his way into sleep.

 

Sometime later, Stiles has done pretty much every small, useless task he can find and it’s not helping him stop thinking about this upcoming shoot.

It’s just a weird thing. It sticks at him.

What he _wants_ to do is call Derek, just to be sure that Peter isn’t putting him in a really weird situation. But there’s also the whole thing with Derek getting the fuck out of dodge this morning.

It’s probably Scott. Isaac said a while back that there was bad blood between him and Scott? So he probably just doesn’t like Scott.

Not that Stiles has really gotten that vibe off of him, so maybe he just thinks that Scott hates _him_. Which is silly because Scott doesn’t really _hate_ people, not unless they’ve done something horrible without remorse. But Derek doesn’t know Scott, does he?

So maybe it’s okay to call Derek. 

Even though it’s the same day they hooked up.

It’s not like a _date_ kind of call. It’s a coworker call. A _you have inside knowledge about our mutual boss who might not technically be your boss_ call. That’s totally normal. 

He gets as far as cleaning the inside of the dishwasher before he tells himself to go ahead and call. 

Derek picks up almost right away.

“ _What’s up?_ ” he asks, cool as you please. 

“So I just got an email about my next shoot,” Stiles says. 

“ _I haven’t checked mine yet. Are we doing something weird?_ ”

Well, that’s a little awkward. Really, he’d _rather_ be shooting with Derek because that’s simple: they get in, have great sex, and they get paid for it. What’s not to like?

But that’s not really how it works.

“I don’t know what _your_ next shoot is, but, uh, I’m apparently shooting a threesome?” Derek’s silent on the other end. “Which, whatever, it’s been a while, but I’ve done it before, it’s just...they’re brothers? Twins. Ethan and Aiden, if you know them. I just...the script doesn’t say anything too weird, but Peter isn’t really the most trustworthy, so I’m just kind of unsure about the whole thing.”

“ _Peter may not have normal boundaries, but I’m pretty sure incest is taboo to him_.” Derek’s voice is sharp, clipped, then he sighs. “ _It’ll be fine, Stiles._ ”

Stiles chews the inside of his lip, not really convinced but he’s not sure what to say. It’s not that he doubts _Derek_ , but Peter is another matter. And he’s just getting general skeeves from the shoot.

“ _Do you..._ ” Derek trails off, goes silent for a moment. “ _I have a little bit of pull. If you want someone there who’ll be on your side._ ”

The suggest makes something in him settle in relief. “That would be great, actually. I mean, if you have something else to do, I don’t want to drag you away from it or anything.”

“ _I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t willing_ ,” Derek tells him. 

“Awesome, dude,” Stiles tells him, anxiety gone. “Like, I was kind of wondering if it was bad karma because I made a joke about pulling twins once, and like, to each their own or whatever, I just wasn’t sure if I _actually_ wanted to be in the middle of it, but I... _thanks_ , is what I’m saying.”

He can feel Derek shrug somehow, _knows_ he is by the little noise he makes. “ _It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it._ ” 

“Well, cool,” Stiles says, then stands there with his phone against his ear, staring into space. Is he supposed to say something else? It’s not like he called to chat or anything. He had a problem, Derek offered a solution, and now they’re done. “I guess I’ll see you Tuesday, then.”

“ _Yeah, I guess you will_.” 

Stiles isn’t sure what to read in his tone or what, if anything, to say to that, so he just hangs up.

“Hot date with Derek?” Isaac asks, popping his head into Stiles’ room. 

Stiles gives him a withering look. “ _No_. He’s just gonna hang out at my next shoot. Because he’s an awesome fuckbuddy. A bro, even. A fuckbro.” 

Isaac stares at him for a moment, frowning. “I really hope you don’t mean that the way it sounds.” 

“Yeah, okay, whatever.” He glares and Isaac smirks at him, winks, heading on his way. Whatever.

Everything’s going to be fine now. It’s going to be _great_.

 

Tuesday comes and it _should_ be fine, only his fucking professor holds class late because finals are in two weeks so everyone will stay for the lecture. It’s fucking _awful_ , but it’s his Intro to Criminal Law class and he doesn’t know anyone else in it, so he’s screwed. And it’s not like he can say he’s gotta run so someone can film him getting fucked from both ends. 

Every second that passes, he gets more antsy, and that’s not the worst thing.

In theory, it would’ve been acceptable to be let out this late because there’s a couple streets he could safely speed down and get those minutes back. He’d be _barely_ late for makeup, but Erica would work with him.

Except there’s a fucking _four-car-pile-up_ right in the middle of his way, and he doesn’t realize it until he’s approaching, so he has to get through the cars to take a detour.

Derek texts him when it gets to the point where he’s horribly late for makeup, and he’s stuck behind some gawker trying to get a look at the accident, and hits his touchscreen a little too hard. 

 **Gonna be a while. Fucking traffic.** he sends, drumming his thumbs on his steering wheel. 

By the time he gets there, it’s twenty minutes after when the cameras were supposed to start rolling and he freaking hates _everything_ because there’s nothing more annoying than someone who’s late and it feels like it’s his fault even though it’s really not and—

Derek intercepts him almost as soon as he walks through the door and steers him into the makeup chair. 

“Relax. It’s fine. No one had anywhere to be this afternoon,” Derek tells him, and Stiles lets go of a breath, tension halved. Erica’s on him in a second, smiles at him. 

“Next time, don’t run,” she says. “You’re supposed to look flushed in the middle, not at the beginning.”

Stiles is about to say something when Derek’s hands settle on his shoulders and rub with just the right amount of pressure. The best he can get out is a feeble noise because Derek finds a knot in his shoulder and _wow_. That’s _amazing_. He’s pretty much paralyzed by it. His eyes are going wonky and he’s probably drooling on himself or something but _holy God, that’s good_. 

“ _Marry me_ ,” he gets out, leaning into Derek’s touch shamelessly. He could _die_ here and be totally satisfied with his life, it’s that good. It’s possible he moans a little bit there, but he can’t be bothered to care. 

“You know, I’ve seen him jizz himself and get fucked in pretty much every position you could imagine, but this is the first time I’ve ever felt like a voyeur,” Erica says over his head, and Stiles should probably take offense or something, but he’s in a happy place and can’t bring himself to care. 

But then Derek’s hands leave him and he’s just _there_. 

Erica dabs a little chapstick on his lips, and Stiles can _feel_ Derek behind him.

“Don’t make me beg, dude,” Stiles says, tilting his head back to look up at him. “Because I totally will. You have _magic hands_. Are you secretly a licensed masseuse or something?”

“Werewolf thing,” Derek says. “Pain leaching.”

Stiles looks at him in awe. “I mean, Scott did it to me when I brained myself on our kitchen cabinets, but I didn’t think of the other uses. _Jesus_. That’s seriously some industrial grade shit right there. I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied with any else’s backrub again.”

Derek snorts, but then his thumbs are working at the base of Stiles’ skull and his head falls forward like there’s nothing holding it up. 

“ _Oh my God I love you that’s amazing_ ,” Stiles groans in a rush. 

“Come on, Derek, I can’t get to his eyebrows with his head like this,” Erica complains, and Derek moves down to just below his shoulders, where his back usually hurts from hunching over in a chair over his desk. He zeroes in on _just_ the right spot, and Stiles arches unconsciously, shoulders meeting Derek’s chest because he’s so close. 

Erica takes a second to glare at Derek before moving her eyes to Stiles’ brows. She _better_ not be glaring at Derek because Derek’s hands are a religious experience and he’s doing absolutely nothing wrong. No, he certainly isn’t. 

Derek’s lips brush against his ear, and maybe he shudders a little. “You’re too stressed,” he says, and his breath is warm and Stiles is little more than a puddle of very pleased goo at this point. 

Apparently, not everyone respects, because Erica makes a face. “I don’t know _why_ I thought this wouldn’t be gross, but it totally is.” 

“Derek’s magic hands are _not_ gross,” Stiles tells her with certainty, and he’s half-sure his eyes roll back into his head when Derek’s mouth presses against the curve of his ear. 

“No, but the fact that you’re about to cream yourself over them _is_ ,” she says, then backs away. “I’m done. There’s nothing more I can do. _Thank God_.” 

“I’m _not_ about to cream myself,” Stiles tells her too late. Then, quieter, to Derek, he asks, “Hey, do you think you could get me off like this? We should try that somet— _oh fuck_ —” Derek digs his knuckles into this one spot that makes Stiles grip the arms of his chair. 

“You ready yet, Stilinski?” Stiles hears and Derek’s hands still. Finstock’s giving them a look. “Or do you need to have a personal moment with your boyfriend?”

Stiles opens his mouth, and Finstock waves his hand.

“No, it’s _fine_ ,” he says. “It’s not like we have _work_ to do or anything. No, you go on ahead. I’m sure it’s _way_ more important than anything we have to do here.” 

Stiles jumps out of his chair, checking his clothes really fast; he’s playing a college kid so he’s good. He catches Derek taking his chair, giving him a nod, and he’s ready. 

The set’s made to look like a dorm room, and the whole thing is a total cliche, but he’s not really in a position to judge. Ethan and Aiden are sitting on one of the beds, backs against the wall in a way that makes it look like they were just conspiring or something. Whatever. He’s ready for this.

He shakes his hands out, his shoulders, and acknowledges the twins with a friendly wave. This isn’t weird at all. It’s just another shoot.

“So, just to recap the script, even though I’m _sure_ you’ve read it, Aiden,” Finstock says, and Aiden grins sheepishly, “It’s basically _blah blah blah_ Stiles is pledging a fraternity _blah blah blah_ initiation is blowjobs, yada yada, spitroast, money shot, you know the drill.” 

By the time he’s done talking, Stiles is pressing his mouth into a thin line and he doesn’t know why. He’s _fine_ and this is _nothing_ but there’s something twisting his stomach inside-out, making his throat tight. 

“Everyone ready?” Finstock asks. It feels like it’s aimed in Stiles’ direction, so he nods, but he can’t move into place. His muscles are too tense, his body won’t move. This is just any shoot but he _doesn’t want to be here_. He makes himself picture it, imagines the scene, and he can feel bile rising in the back of his throat. 

 _I can’t do this_ , he realizes, but he can’t move either, can’t _tell_ anyone, and he thinks he might be exploding until a hand takes his and pulls him away. 

He’s not really sure where he’s going, but his face lands in Derek’s shoulder. The smell of laundry detergent in his t-shirt makes Stiles feel safe. 

“You’re okay,” Derek says, and he’s warm and _there_. “You’re okay.” 

Stiles nods, trying to breathe. He hasn’t freaked out like this since his mom died. He was _done_ with this. There’s no reason for it. No fucking reason. It’s just a fucking _shoot_. He’s done at least a hundred before, and it’s never hit him like this. 

Derek rubs his back while he breathes. 

It’s comforting, but the fact that he _needs_ to be comforted is throwing him for a loop. 

“I don’t know why this is happening,” he says, breathing fast still. “I don’t know what’s wrong.” 

And then he hiccups. 

They’re not _funny_ hiccups. They’re not mood-lightening hiccups because they _hurt_ and he’s still trying to get a grip on _everything_ and it’s just a mess. _He_ ’s a mess. A red-faced, hiccup-y mess. It’s _pathetic_.

“When my shoot with Kate went south, I went into the bathroom and sat on the floor the shower and cried,” Derek says into his hair. “It was the worst I ever felt, but the thing is, I _knew_ before we even got to set that it was a bad idea. I had a bad feeling and I ignored it and tried to do it anyway. I know it doesn’t matter, I know it’s your decision, but if you have a bad feeling, I don’t think you should do it. I don’t want you to feel like that.” 

Stiles hiccups against Derek’s shoulder, frowning because Derek’s actually, like, a really good friend, and he has no idea what he did to earn that. Frankly, he hasn’t been very nice. 

“I don’t know why I can’t do it,” Stiles says at last. “I have no freaking clue why, but I absolutely can’t stand the idea of fucking them.”

“Sometimes you just don’t find someone attractive. It happens.”

Stiles shakes his head, pulling away to look at Derek. “No, it’s not that. They’re not _un_ attractive. Objectively, they’re cute and they’re not _really_ jerks, from what I understand, so it’s not that, I just...I don’t even know. But when I think about fucking them, it just puts me off.” 

He’s feeling dizzy, so he looks around. They’re in the dressing room, and there’s _chairs_ right there, so he pulls Derek over there and sits. It helps. 

“What’s wrong with me?” he asks, rubbing his temples. “Why can’t I do this? I can fuck someone I’m not attracted to, okay? It’s not that hard, especially if I’m bottoming, but it just feels _wrong_.”

“Who doesn’t it feel wrong with, then?” Derek asks gently. He reaches out, then pulls back like he doesn’t want to spook Stiles, so he grabs Derek’s hand and squeezes. 

When he was little and had to get shots, his mom used to hold his hand. She would tell him to squeeze if it hurt, and it helped. Maybe it was a pain thing, but it helps to have someone to hold onto. (Later, when he was really still too young, when any age was too young, he gave her the words right back. Her grip was weak, but she smiled like it helped.)

So he holds onto Derek and he _thinks_. Gently, at first, because he’s afraid, really, that somehow, he woke up broken. That he woke up unable to do this, unable to keep his father out of debt, unable to protect what matters. So he edges around it. Thinks about Scott, who he knows will put him off, then Allison and Isaac, who put him off because he could never do that to his bro. Then Lydia, who’s always going to be his friend first. So he tries Erica, but that just doesn’t feel right. Not Boyd, either. Not _Danny_ , who he actually _has_ slept with, and that’s when he gets scared. 

He has an unofficial mental list of the best sex he’s had, his usual jerk-off fodder. The first couple that come to mind he skips because it’s Derek, but he goes through the others, remembers. They don’t do it for him. They don’t gross him out, either, but they feel removed somehow. 

There’s no reason for it, for him to virtually lose all interest in everyone. He hasn’t felt like this since that brief period in freshman year when he thought he was going to convince Lydia to marry him. For ten weeks after meeting her, he walked around in a haze and could think of no one but her. Before she set him straight, of course. And in high school, with Heather, he’d loved her single-mindedly, though they’d never been more than friends. 

He’s not saying he’s _in love_ , because neither of those times were really love; they were obsession. So maybe Allison’s right. Maybe he _is_ a little obsessed with Derek. Because sex with Derek? Yeah, he can visualize that _just fine_. 

It’s not healthy to fixate like this, and he should probably be at least _concerned_ about it, but he’s going to be okay. It’ll pass, he just needs to ride it out. 

Derek’s hand is broad, but it fits in Stiles’ pretty well. He turns it over, examining the bumps of his knuckles, the flesh of his palm, the clean lines of his nails, the raised veins twisting across the back. If he could read palms, he’d like to read Derek’s, to know his past and future by this hand. 

“What are you thinking?” Derek asks. Stiles looks up at his face, his eyes, large for his features from this angle. 

“Honestly?” He waits for Derek’s nod, tries to give him an out, but he doesn’t take it. “You’re the only one I can think of, and it scares the shit out of me.”

Derek looks at him like he’s a puzzle when all Stiles wants is to be understood. 

“I’m not asking you for anything,” Stiles tells him. “I don’t want anything different, don’t worry. I just need to work this out of my system. I’ll figure it out soon enough.” 

For a moment, Derek just looks at him. He breathes deeply, which is almost a weird thing to watch, and then he nods. Just the once. 

“If you need me for anything, just let me know,” Derek says, and Stiles feels a little breath punched out of him. Because Derek’s not _nice_ in the traditional sense, but he’s _there_ in a way that feels like a promise. 

“I’ve gotta go out there and tell them I can’t do it, don’t I?”

Derek’s mouth curves a little. “I think they know.”

That’s just great.

Maybe it’s better this way.

“What do I even _do?_ ” Stiles asks.

“It’s up to you.”

Stiles frowns. “I have to talk to Peter, don’t I? Figure out some sort of arrangement.”

“He won’t resist,” Derek tells him softly. It makes him suspicious about that phone call with Peter the other night. 

“If I’m just with you, I won’t be shooting as much.” That’s not going to be good for him. “I guess I could always do more live sessions.”

“Do you have time?”

“For live sessions? I mean—”

“No,” Derek says, “in general. If you wanted, I mean, Elaine’s been complaining about only having two hands for a while. I could talk her into it. It would be part-time work, but it’s something steady. _If_ you wanted it.”

Stiles stares at him, open-mouthed, for a long moment.

And then he does a very stupid thing.

He kisses Derek. 

Gets out of his seat, cups Derek’s face in his hands, and just lays one on him. It’s feels like the right thing to do. 

Except that it completely takes Derek by surprise. 

But when Stiles starts to pull away, Derek’s hand comes up to the back of his neck. His mouth is soft and willing, and what Stiles had vaguely intended to be a grateful peck is really, really not. 

It’s not his fault.

It’s not really Derek’s, either, it’s just the fact of who he is and who Stiles is and how they work together. Things between them just grow, exponentially. A sharp look turns into an argument turns into a mess, and a little bit of lust turns into _this_ , this thing where they fuck and Stiles doesn’t know how to stop. 

And a small, stupid kiss turns into Derek getting out of his chair and pressing Stiles against the wall. 

It’s not really what he thinks. What he thinks is that Derek’s going to get his legs up around him and make Stiles an utter mess. Something dirty and addicting, the way touching him is.

But Derek just tilts Stiles’ head back a little, holds his face in his hands like he knows that Stiles’ body has gone from zero to sixty in negative seconds. His body can’t really handle slow but that’s what Derek gives him. Just brushes his lips against Stiles, each stuttering point of contact shooting straight to his nervous system, each pass winding him tighter. 

When Derek’s mouth closes on his lower lip, he makes some ugly, embarrassing noise that he’ll never admit to. But he thinks he might be about to die, maybe. It’s certainly possible. There’s only so much a person can take.

Stiles is not a creature of restraint. He doesn’t believe in it, really. That’s how people get weird complexes that they don’t work out until they’re fifty five and hate their lives. He doesn’t do _this_ , but here he is, standing there with Derek’s shirt bunched in his hands, not speeding things along. In equal measure, he wants Derek to hold him and take him apart, but more than that, he wants to see what Derek will do with him if he lets him.

Just when he thinks Derek’s going to hurry up and kiss the ever-living fuck out of him, he pulls back and kisses around Stiles’ mouth. Slow, barely-there brushes that make Stiles hyper-aware of his skin and the blood buzzing beneath it.

Derek decides to take pity on him, though. Or it looks like it. His eyes are dark when they flick up from Stiles’ mouth, full of intent when Derek’s head tilts and he leans in.

There’s a burst of hard knocks on the door, and Derek stops right where their shared breath hangs between them. Erica comes in with a hand shading her eyes.

“We’re packing up, losers,” Erica says, “and FYI, you wanna talk to Peter about the twins.” 

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks as Derek backs away a little.

“It’s...I don’t have proof or anything, but I got a pretty sure feeling that they weren’t actually planning on shooting today,” she says. “It wouldn’t be the first time he played dirty to get actors to shoot together.”

Stiles shakes his head. “But we already _did_.”

“Exclusively,” Derek explains with a frown. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Whatever. I just wanted to give you a heads up. Also, fucking in the dressing room is pretty classless.” 

Derek sighs and Stiles isn’t even going to touch that one. She’s out the door anyway, leaving them there, and he’s not really sure what to do. 

“What now?” he asks. He hopes it’s kissing. That would be good.

“Have you eaten lunch?” Derek asks.

Stiles shakes his head.

“We could grab something, if you wanted.” Derek shrugs. “I don’t know, we don’t have to or anything...”

“I don’t really know if I want to be around people right now,” Stiles says, and Derek nods, like he’s taking that as a _no_. “Do you have food at your place? I don’t know if we have anything at mine, I haven’t gone grocery shopping—”

“I have food,” Derek tells him quickly. “You can come over.” 

“Cool.” He gives Derek a look that says pretty clearly that some sort of sex will also be on the menu, and Derek’s mouth curves at it.

 

It’s one of the worst car rides of his life.

Derek’s easy enough to follow, but it’s a little ways away, and considering that Stiles got into the car at half chub, it’s pretty much the worst. For some reason, the idea of seeing where Derek lives is doing it for him. 

Derek’s bed probably smells like him. 

Stiles kind of wants to ruin his sheets, spend the rest of the day in bed. Wants to use his shower and stand in front of his fridge. 

Whatever this whole thing is, he should be able to fuck it out of his system soon enough. Once he and Derek fuck pretty much every way he can think of, he should be satisfied. There won’t be anything novel about it. And then he’ll be fine.

But he’s not fine because he’s thinking about sex and he has _no_ idea where Derek actually lives and the anticipation is building too fast for him to manage. 

By the time they stop at an apartment building that’s _clearly_ more expensive than Stiles’, his hands are shaking like it’s his first time. 

Derek takes one look at him and rolls his eyes. 

At first, Stiles opens his mouth to defend himself, but he thinks better of it and follows Derek inside. 

In the elevator, he manages to stay within his own personal space for all of ten seconds before he’s coaxing Derek into the corner, mouth on his neck. Derek holds him in close, a hand slipping under Stiles’ shirt to lay flat against the small of his back. His stubble is rough, scrapes against Stiles’ tongue in the best way, burns like the rest of him. 

The elevator dings and Derek guides him down the hall. At his door, he stops with Stiles pressing back against his chest, and his hand shakes a little when he sticks the key in the door. His body is a warm weight that Stiles wants to spread himself all over. 

It’s a mess as soon as they get in the door. 

Stiles isn’t good at patient. His shirt is off before the door is shut and he’s pulling Derek in by the top of his jeans.

Later, he’ll look around, but right now, he needs to _fuck_. 

Derek backs him up against the wall. The memory of earlier shoots through Stiles’ veins right down to his cock, and he licks his lips, staring. Because Derek’s stalling. 

Stiles should ask him why, but he’s not really sure how, so he palms the front of Derek’s jeans. He’s hard, that’s not the problem, but apparently, there isn’t one because Derek leans in for his mouth. 

It’s pretty much the opposite of before, with Derek licking his mouth open messily and opening his jeans, pushing them down. His tongue fucks into Stiles’ mouth like a promise of things to come, but Stiles doesn’t need _promises_. He needs _now now now_.

Pushing Derek away, he manages to hop out of his jeans. His erection is obvious and he doesn’t fucking care. 

“Horizontal,” Stiles says, looking at Derek, then, “and naked. Hurry up.” 

Derek tugs his shirt over his head with actually really impressive speed, hands going straight to his jeans. “Couch?” he asks, and that’ll do. 

Stiles looks behind him, sees that he’s next to the kitchen, that it opens up into the living room. He drops his underwear, steps out of them, and _fuck_ , Derek’s not wearing any, is he? 

It’s probably something to be embarrassed about, the way he launches himself at Derek. Their mouths collide a little too hard, and it’s just what Stiles needs. He wants it a little too rough, wants it to hurt a little. So he pulls Derek’s hair to feel him moan and drag blunt fingers across his shoulder blades. 

They’re on the same page. Derek backs him into the living room, keeps him from tripping or running into furniture until the couch hits the backs of his knees. 

Derek’s mouth moves to his jaw, and he needs to get on Derek _now_. 

It doesn’t take much maneuvering to get Derek on his back and climb over him. Derek looks up at him, hands sliding up his bare thighs. His chest heaves a little. 

It’s not a good position for Derek to do anything, so Stiles spits in both of his hands and grabs their cocks. Derek hisses, arching up into the grip, and one of his hands flies up to the armrest above his head. Stiles’ cock is already spitting and aching, and each stroke feels _necessary_ , and he’s just not going to last. He had what felt like a decade of anticipation, so his grip is tight and fast. For all that it makes his toes curl and mouth fall open, it kind of hurts a little, just barely too dry, but it’s what he needs. It’s not like Derek’s complaining, thank God, because Stiles is ready to go. 

Derek’s biting his lip, surging against him, and it’s not until his head tips back in a groan that Stiles’ body gives up the fight and releases in a way that feels equally like victory and defeat. He chokes on a sob with it, bows over Derek’s body, trying to breathe. 

One of Derek’s hands wraps around his and pulls a few times, and he bucks while Stiles sags against the couch, watching. Derek looks stunning when he comes, every time. 

Stiles just leans there, watching him catch his breath until his eyes open.

“ _Jesus,_ ” he sighs, and Stiles grins lazily.

“How do you feel about napping?” Stiles asks. There’s no energy left in his body after that. 

But it’s okay because Derek’s pulling him down against his chest, and there’s spunk between them, but Stiles honestly doesn’t care. He settles, forehead against Derek’s throat. His eyes slip closed as he snuggles in a little.

“You don’t mind?”

Derek’s fingers trail up and down his spine, soothing. “Not at all,” he says, and Stiles can feel the vibrations of his voice.

“This is going to be _gross_ later.”

“Yep.”

Stiles smiles, turning his cheek into Derek’s collarbone. “As long as we’re on the same page with that one.” 

 

At some point, Stiles wakes up to late afternoon, possibly evening, light coming in through the window with a very sore arm that’s spent at least a couple hours curled in a weird position. 

His face is also in a puddle of drool.

On Derek’s chest.

He has officially drooled all over Derek. Hopefully, they’re on that level.

It’s a weird, sleep-strained maneuver, but he tries to sit up. It’s somewhat less than effective. There’s a very good chance he’s actually _stuck_. If he’s very lucky, it’s only because he’s stiff and not because they’re super-jizzed together. 

He tries again, but it wakes Derek up a little, apparently, because Derek shifts, pulling him closer. 

Good news: Derek is totally a cuddler and that would be _super_ pretty much any other time. 

Bad news: there’s not going to be a way out of this that leaves anyone’s dignity intact. 

“Hey, buddy,” Stiles says gently, lifting up his head to look at Derek’s face. “We’re gonna need to get up.” Derek rouses slowly, frowning. When he opens his eyes, he looks at Stiles, eyes a little wide.

“Uh, hi.”

Stiles grins. “Hey, sleepyhead. I have no fucking clue what time it is, but I think we’ve been asleep for a while.” Derek rubs at his eyes and looks around, then makes a face.

“Looks like we skipped lunch, then. I hope you didn’t have an afternoon class.”

“Nope,” Stiles says, “not on tuesdays. But I think we should clean up and grab dinner. I’m _starving._ ”

“Shower?” Derek asks, and Stiles nods. 

“Yeah.” Wincing, he says, “Also, I may have drooled on you a little, and you’re going to notice it in a second. So. Sorry about that.” 

“Because we’ve never swapped bodily fluids before,” Derek says. But Derek’s sitting up, bringing Stiles with him, and then they have the matter of separation to worry about. 

It takes a moment, and Stiles grimaces after. “Howabout we agree to never talk about this again?” 

“Come on,” Derek tells him, getting up and not waiting for Stiles to follow. It’s a little sharp, sharp enough to give Stiles pause. He stands there for a second, wondering what he did to piss Derek off, before chasing after him. 

Derek’s got the shower running and it _is_ bigger, substantially. His hand is in the water and he doesn’t look up when Stiles approaches. The lines of his body are strange and familiar, like he’s in a shape Stiles has never seen. It’s not a good one. There’s something in the curve of his spine that Stiles wants to soothe, so he kisses Derek’s shoulder, trails his fingers down Derek’s forearm. 

But Derek goes tense, rigid, so Stiles backs off. Watches him. Derek doesn’t look at him. 

“Do you want the first shower?” Derek asks and _that_ ’s enough of that.

“Dude, what did I _do?_ What’s got you so pissed?” 

Derek _does_ turn around for that. “You can shower first,” he says and gets the fuck out, leaves Stiles standing there like an idiot because he has _no_ idea what’s going on. 

There’s a stack of washcloths on the back of the toilet. Stiles grabs one, cleans himself off, then makes sure it’s clean and not dripping before going to find Derek. 

Not in the living room or kitchen, so Stiles checks the door across from the bathroom. 

Derek’s laying across his bed with a pillow over his face. It makes him feel like a creep, but he can’t help but notice that Derek’s beautiful, that he looks like a painting with the lines of his elbows and the soft curve of his cock between his thighs. 

But he _does_ need to be cleaned up. 

“You know, I think you’re supposed to sleep with the pillow _under_ your head,” Stiles says too late. 

Derek pulls the pillow off his face and gives him a dry look. 

Stiles holds up the wash cloth. “Thought you might want this,” he offers, and Derek looks up at the ceiling, shrugs. “Okay, can you stop being passive-aggressive for two seconds and tell me what’s got you so pissed off?”

“It has nothing to do with you,” Derek tells him, then holds out his hand for the washcloth. Stiles crawls onto the bed and gives it to him, then sits back on his heels. 

“If it has nothing to do with me, don’t take it out on me,” Stiles says as Derek wipes himself down. “And _tell_ me.” 

Derek sighs heavily. “It’s _nothing_. Just a bad mood.” Stiles raises an eyebrow at him and he rolls his eyes. “I woke up and thought I was somewhere else for a moment. That’s all.” 

Oh. Alright, then. 

So he woke up and thought he was with someone else. That’s what that means. And it’s _fine_. It’s not like they’re _exclusive_ , even, so it’s not like it matters. Stiles doesn’t care.

Alright, he fucking does because he’s not going to sleep with someone who’s imagining him as someone else. That’s not what he does. Not with Derek, anyway. Not unless it’s mutual. But it’s not like he can do anything about it. He can’t _force_ Derek to be more into him, that’s not how it works. 

“I should go home,” Stiles says. He should get out of here and figure out what he’s going to do because he can’t do _this_. 

Derek looks at him with a frown. “We’re not...?” He looks kind of disappointed, actually, which, fuck him.

“What, you actually _wanted_ to go to dinner? Or did you just think I’d let you fuck me after?” he snaps. Derek’s eyes go wide and he sits up, and he has the fucking nerve to look _confused_. “No, don’t give me that bullshit. I’m not doing this. If you’re with me, you’re with _me_. I’m not going to be some disposable—”

Derek grabs his wrist just as he’s about to get off the bed and leave, but he lets Derek keep him, gives him a look that demands an answer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t know what you think is going on, but don’t leave angry. I shouldn’t— It’s my fault.” He actually looks _sorry_ , that’s the thing. 

“You don’t think of someone else when we’re together?”

Derek seems kind of upset by that, actually. “Do _you?_ Is that why you’re—”

“No,” Stiles tells him. “You _know_ that’s not even— I can’t even believe you’d have to ask me that.” It feels better between them, so he lets Derek pull him into a kiss, lets him lay him down and pour himself into Stiles’ mouth. Lets him chase some sort of reassurance from between his cheek and gums. Because this is something they do, he’s realizing. They kiss without it being about fucking. They actually _sleep_ together. Which he’s not going to worry about because they’re friends with benefits. Benefits come in all shapes and sizes, and it _feels_ like a benefit. 

Derek rolls over onto his side and Stiles can feel him staring before he opens his eyes. He just _stares_. Like there’s something important he’s learning from Stiles’ face.

And then Stiles’ stomach growls. 

He grins sheepishly. “So, howabout dinner?” 

 

They end up getting drive-thru Taco Bell in Derek’s car and heading to the empty parking lot of the adjacent movie theater because they agree that it’s too early in the night to eat it in the actual Taco Bell parking lot. 

But Stiles has a crunch wrap supreme and a couple dorito tacos and that weird turquoise Mountain Dew, so he’s good. 

It kind of feels like a stakeout, he thinks, and from there, he gets to imagining it.

“We should be the main characters in a procedural drama,” Stiles tells Derek, who pauses with his open mouth an inch from his taco, eyebrow cocked. “It would be totally cool. See, I would be the local law enforcement, a legacy kind of thing, you know, whole family of cops. And you would be the hard-ass FBI agent with a chip on his shoulder who’s been called in to investigate the wacky murder case.” 

Derek chews, swallows. “Then what happens?”

“Well,” Stiles says with a smirk, “ _then_ we fuck in the back of your SUV.”

“I don’t have an SUV,” Derek tells him.

“All FBI agents have SUVs. Everyone knows that.” 

“Where’s the drama?” Derek asks. He takes a sip of his soda. “I mean, two dudes who work together fucking? Not really high-stakes, is it?”

Stiles frowns, because he has a point. “Well, I guess we both think the other’s the killer. So, like, we’re both trying to get the truth out of each other. Through our dicks.” 

“That doesn’t sound very effective,” Derek tells him.

“Well, no, that’s the twist. Cause you think it’s one of them, but really, it’s some insignificant character, and they, like, find the murderer with the power of love or something.”

Derek looks at him skeptically. “The power of love?”

“It’s _television_ ,” Stiles says. “If two people with contrasting personalities are forced to work together for any length of time, they’re going to fall in love. That’s just how it works. I don’t make the rules.” 

“It’s not very realistic,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles frowns.

“I think it is. I mean, it’s not always romantic, but I think you fall a little bit in love with people when you get to know them.” He takes a bite, thinking about it, then amends, “Unless they’re a real dickbag. Like, I don’t think any number of forced interactions could make me like Peter. But that’s how it goes, isn’t it? Can’t be a rule if there’s no exception.”

Derek gives him a look. “I don’t think that’s how rules work. They’re not _supposed_ to have exceptions. That makes them bad rules.” Looking at him, at the set of his brows and tightness of his mouth, Stiles gets a hunch about him, about what he’s thinking. Because he remembers Derek telling him once that there was stuff he didn’t do, and he remembers him doing it with Stiles anyway.

“You know what they say,” Stiles tells him, “it’s the exception that proves the rule. It reminds you why the rule’s there in the first place.” That doesn’t sound right. Well, it _does_ , but it shouldn’t, because it shouldn’t matter to him if Derek wants to get fucked by someone else, or any of it, but maybe he just wants an even playing field. 

It’s not fair, though. It’s equal, but it’s not fair.

For some stupid reason, he wants to kiss Derek, but he has crappy hot sauce on his hands and his mouth tastes like faux taco and he doesn’t think it would be for the right reasons, anyway. 

There’s something ugly about this whole business of them fucking. It feels like a secret about a secret. He’s not sure what it is or what it should be, just that it’s probably wrong. It shouldn’t feel like this. He’s known that from the start, pretty much. It was supposed to be simple, but he’s staring at two sides of an equation he can’t make right. 

“It’s getting late,” Stiles says, looking at the clock. It’s dark out, even if it’s not really all that late. But he has homework, probably, and there’s a limit to how long he can spend with Derek before they’re in a weird gray area. 

Derek balls up his wrappers, saying, “I’ll take you back.”

Stiles thinks about it, and he doesn’t really want to go home. He’d rather curl up on Derek’s couch or something, but he’s not supposed to want that. His needs are supposed to be met already, he’s supposed to be satisfied with getting off or whatever, but he’s not. 

He _likes_ Derek. Not just in general, but _like_ -likes him.That’s what this is about.

It’s not some wide-eyed revelation. There's no surprise in it because he's been plugging up his ears and screaming nursery rhymes to block out the sound. Only pretending that he was loud enough. And now there's nothing for it. It just makes him feel kind of stupid and numb. It’s no longer a blur at the edge of his vision, it’s right in front of him, and it’s an ugly, sad thing. It twists uneasily in him like a parasite, something intrusive that'll drain him of all he has.

One thing's for sure: he can't do this anymore.

He glances over, catches Derek looking at him with a frown. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Of _course_ he can tell.

“Just the usual,” Stiles tells him, looking out the window. “Life, inevitability, bad decisions. That sort of thing.” It’s true. He makes sure to tell the truth. 

Sometime later, when he’s home, he’ll construct the right sort of lie to cut this whole thing off before it fucks him up, because it _will_ ; he’s not the kind of person who can handle fucking someone who doesn’t love him, not if he cares. Honestly, he’s never tried it, but it feels like a mistake. So either he’ll lie his way out of it, or he’ll find the courage to tell the truth and cut it off anyway.

Because it's over. This dead thing between them will never be beautiful, and that’s just how it goes sometimes. 

He wonders if Derek can sense it on him, the despair. If it’s contagious. Because when they get out of the car, it’s like Derek doesn’t want to look at him. Like he _can't._  Stiles takes his keys out of his pocket, watching Derek walk around the car, a little too slow, like he’s stalling because he doesn’t know what to do. 

He settles for dropping a kiss on Stiles’ cheek, saying, “Goodnight,” with his eyes down. It doesn’t seem honest, like he knows. He probably does. 

Maybe that’s why he does it. Because he’s already given up on this, so there’s nothing left to lose. 

He grabs Derek’s shoulder, turns him around for a last kiss. Curls his hand in Derek’s hair, bruises his lips against Derek’s teeth. It’s a bad thing to do, he knows that. He’s never claimed to be a good person. 

But he lets Derek go. Because that’s the right thing to do and he doesn’t like having to steal kisses. It makes him feel dirty. 

Derek’s eyes are wide and almost terrified, and for a second, Stiles thinks he’s going to get slapped. And then Derek’s pulling him in with a hand on either side of his face. It’s very quick, a little too hard and messy, and then he’s gone, shoulders hunching as he walks towards the door. 

There’s no mistaking it for anything but a goodbye. 

Stiles stands there for a minute, heart beating too fast, then wipes his eyes and heads to his Jeep. 

 

When he gets home, Scott’s waiting for him on the couch. He holds up an XBox controller.

“Wanna kill some nazi zombies?” he asks. “There’s beer in the fridge.” There wasn’t this morning, which means someone got it recently, and it’s a weeknight, so that’s weird. “Isaac and Allison are at the gym,” Scott adds, and _oh_.

“What did you hear?” Stiles asks with a sigh. He flops on the couch, takes the controller. 

“ _Things_ ,” Scott says. “Erica called Isaac, said Derek took you home. I figured I’d wait and see if you were feeling good or bad about things. Considering how fucking long you took, I was figuring _good_ , but it’s not, is it? What happened? Did you have a fight?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, it’s— It’s over, that’s all.”

“Who ended it?” Scott’s frowning, not long away from breaking out the puppy eyes. 

“It was mutual. Now can we just play already?” 

Scott sets his controller down. “Why do you think you have to lie to me?”

“Look, _I don’t know_ , okay?” Stiles leans back against the couch, rubbing his face. “I was going to tell him it was over tomorrow or something, but then he dropped me off at my car and we just— It was done. No pulse, DNR signed, _over_.” 

“Why were you going to end it?” 

Stiles shakes his head, pissed at himself. “Because I fucked up, and I don’t want to talk about it, so can we just fucking play this game already?”

“Dude, just _talk_ to him,” Scott groans. “With your _words_ , not your genitals this time. Pretty sure he’ll forgive you for whatever.”

“I didn’t really _do_ anything,” Stiles tells him, annoyed. “I just thought about it and decided it was a bad idea. It’s fine.” 

But it’s not, of course it’s not. Because the facts are that he can’t go back to work because he can’t fucking work with anyone and his only real opportunity for alternative employment is more than likely off the table. All because he’s too fucking weak to do it, can’t bring himself to keep fucking someone he likes because he _knows_ it’s going to hurt and then it’s going to end. At least this way, it was _supposed_ to end on his terms.

“What did he say?” Scott asks.

“He didn’t say anything. Derek’s fine. He’s not the problem.”

“You like him.”

It’s not a question, so Stiles doesn’t answer. Just shrugs. It’s not like Scott wasn’t going to figure it out anyway.

“ _Talk_ to him,” Scott tells him gravely. “Just do it. I _promise_ you, whatever you _think_ he’s thinking? Is wrong. He— You just have to talk to him.” 

“Scott, I’m telling you, you weren’t there. It was _definitive_.” He sighs. “It’s a bad idea, anyway.” 

“What is? Having a real relationship?” Scott asks. 

Stiles grimaces. “It’s not like that, _jeez_ —”

“It’s okay to be afraid, you know. It’s a new thing for you. You’re allowed to be scared of new experiences.” Scott squeezes his knee. “But that doesn’t mean you should avoid them at all costs, either.”

There’s nothing Stiles can come up with against that, no rebuttal, so he falls against Scott’s shoulder and sighs heavily. Scott reaches up and pats his head and doesn’t say anything when he falls asleep.

 

What Stiles _should_ do, as the mature and responsible adult he is, is go talk to Derek. 

So what Stiles _actually_ does is pretend he doesn’t even know who Derek is. He ignores texts about Derek. When his charming roommates try to bring Derek up, he dodges it, sometimes physically. There _is_ no Derek. Nope. 

The best part?

It’s totally working.

Everything’s going great. Stiles doesn’t have any problems, besides his finals next week. Gold star for denial.

And then he gets a call from Lydia. 

“ _So tell me, Stiles, why do I have an email from Peter informing me that my client — that’s_ you _— wants to renegotiate his contract? What’s he up to?_ ”

Stiles grimaces. “Well, I wasn’t sure if— I don’t know what I’m going to do, okay? I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” 

“ _You mean what I think you mean, don’t you?_ ” she asks with a sigh, like she’s sitting down. 

“What do you think I mean?” he asks because he’s not sure if he can say it himself. He needs her to put it into words he can agree with.

“ _I shouldn’t have let you do the shoot with Derek_ ,” she says. “ _What did he do to you?_ ”

“Nothing,” he tells her. “We just— It got unprofessional, and I can’t do it anymore.” 

“ _I need you to elaborate on that one, Stiles: you can’t fuck him again? you can’t fuck anyone else? what? What do you need me to do?_ ”

“I can’t fuck him and I can’t fuck anyone else, and I just need to get out.”

“ _What about another company? I could drum up some business for you elsewhere. You have options, you know_.” 

Stiles sighs. “I don’t think I can do it. Maybe in a while. Maybe in a few months, maybe when I come back for next semester. But not right now. It’s just a weird time.” 

As soon as finals are done, he’ll be able to go _home_. He’ll be able to get away from all of this. A vacation. A much-needed vacation. 

“ _I’ll tell Peter you won’t be shooting until January,_ ” Lydia says, “ _and in the meantime, you can figure out what you want to do._ ”

“You’re a life-saver,” he tells her with a little too much gratitude.

“ _Yep. And don’t you forget it._ ”

He stares at his phone after, thinking he should probably talk to Scott, coordinate when they’re going to head home. Or when they’re going to buy presents, _shit_. 

And then he gets a text from an unknown number. An unknown number he’s gotten a text from before. 

**It’s Laura. Please tell my darling brother to plug his phone in already because I’ve been trying to call him. And go easy on him, cutie ;) It’s our parents’ anniversary tonight.**

Stiles stares at his phone for a moment before deciding that he’s unable to deal with it on his own and heading into the living room. Allison’s sitting on the couch with a textbook on her lap and a bag of cinnamon granola. 

“You in a good place with that?” he asks. 

“Not so much,” she says, looking up. “Just about ready to take a stretch break. What’s up?” She holds out the granola, and he takes a handful and sits on the other end of the couch. 

“So, I got a text from Laura.”

Allison’s eyebrows shoot up. “Angry or just awkward?”

Instead of trying to figure out an answer, he just hands her his phone. 

Her face doesn’t change as she reads the text, not until his phone buzzes again. “She says you’re invited to the dinner and that you should make sure he’s ready to leave by seven,” Allison tells him with a pitying look. “Wow. Alright, this is officially uncomfortable.”

“Shit. What am I supposed to say? Oh, hey, Laura, by the way, your brother and I are totally not boning right now or ever again so...” Stiles makes a face and angrily shoves granola into his mouth. “This is stupid. I shouldn’t be in this situation. Jesus, Derek, just answer your fucking _phone_.”

“You don’t think that’s a little weird?” Allison asks.

“ _What_ ’s a little weird?” 

Allison rolls her eyes. “So, you two hook up and break up or whatever and now he’s not answering his phone? That’s weird. If it was totally mutual, that’s weird.”

“Well, we don’t _know_ that’s why he’s not answering his phone.” Stiles shrugs, says, “He probably just forgot to charge it or something, like she said. He probably does that a lot. And we don’t even know how long he hasn’t been answering his phone for. It could just be for a day or two.”

“But why would she try you, then? If she talks to Erica, which she does, then she knew you two left together the other day. If she talked to him _after_ , she would know. It’s not like he’d be able to hide it from her, from what I’ve seen. So that means she hasn’t talked to him since, and I’d be willing to bet it’s because he hasn’t been answering his phone.” He frowns, considering it, and she munches on a few granola clusters. “She probably thinks you’ve turned his place into a sex cave and that’s why he hasn’t been answering. Which means that Derek probably hasn’t talked to anyone after you left. That sounds like moping to me.” 

Stiles shakes his head. “Not necessarily. He probably just doesn’t want people bothering him about it, or asking him if he’s okay when he completely is. He’s probably been out cruising for hookups and loving life or something. Too busy partying to let anyone know.”

That’s met with the least believing expression he’s ever seen.

“Or he’s been curled up in the fetal position headed down a Ryan Gosling-fueled shame spiral,” Allison tells him. “The point is, _you have no idea_. And you won’t know _until_ you talk to him.”

“I’m not going to talk to him.”

“At least send him a _text_ ,” she says with a hard look. “Just let him know Laura’s trying to reach him. That’s just courtesy.”

Stiles grabs another handful of granola, glaring.

She’s right, but that would mean he’d have to acknowledge the whole problem and make first contact, which he has _zero_ interest in ever doing ever. If they never talk to each other again, he’ll be totally satisfied. 

Well, he will be when he stops _thinking_ about Derek. 

Yes, he would do horrible things for Derek to be watching Blue Valentine right now and crying about Stiles. Or maybe Crazy Stupid Love, that way when it’s over, he’ll think it’s a good idea to show up at Stiles’ door and tell him that actually, as a matter of fact, he’s horribly in love with Stiles and wants to make it work. 

But that’s not real. That’s fantasy, and it’s damaging to his calm. 

And Derek probably doesn’t even shameathon Ryan Gosling movies. He probably likes Joseph Gordon-Levitt or something, so it’s a moot point. 

He’s probably watching 500 Days of Summer right now, thinking Stiles is a total loser like Mr. Smiths-Loving Nice Guy. 

“I think you’ll feel better if you call him,” Allison says, jerking Stiles out of his thoughts. “Talking helps, I swear. Contrary to whatever it is you think, relationships take a lot of communication. It’s the only way to figure anything out. Take it from someone who managed to get into one without tears on _any_ side.”

He doesn’t need to hear about how fucking happy and perfect they are right now. He can’t take that. It’s not his fault that he and Derek are both fuck-ups. 

“Yeah,” he says absently. “I’m going to go study. I’ll talk to you later.”

Because he’s well-adjusted and mature, he shoves his phone under his bed instead of texting Derek. 

It’s not Stiles’ fault or responsibility that Derek’s being hard to reach. It’s not his problem, and he’s not going to lay around, wondering what he’s doing or how he’s feeling or what he’s thinking.

He has _studying_ to do. 

 

He actually _does_ it, which is almost surprising in itself, but in the past four days, he’s been throwing himself into his work instead of thinking or talking about Derek. It looks like the whole mess is good for his GPA, if nothing else. 

(It’s a shitty consolation prize.)

But he’s going to be fine. He got out before it got _too_ deep, and he’s going to be fine. It’s just going to be kind of shitty for a little while.

It’s around eight-thirty when he decides that he’s studied enough and it’s the weekend and he’s going to get drunk tonight, so he digs his phone out from under his bed.

There’s a missed call and a new voicemail. From Laura.

Out of some idiotic masochistic tendency, he decides to give it a listen. 

“ _Yeah, I have a fucking message to leave, you little shit,_ ” she says and all the blood drains from Stiles’ face. “ _You’re a fucking piece of work, you know that? This is fucking bullshit. Don’t fucking pretend you didn’t know what you were getting into from the start. Fair warning: if I ever see you again, I will fuck your shit up, you hear me? I will make you wish you’d been menstruated, you walking, talking period cramp._ ”

The phone beeps against his ear, signaling the end of the message, and he drops it onto his bed, winded and dazed.

He’s never been so thoroughly shat on in his entire life. 

 _What even_.

And the thing is? He doesn’t fucking deserve it. He doesn’t deserve some woman who doesn’t even _know_ him telling him he’s a piece of shit because he started having feelings for her brother. As if that were the worst thing he could possibly do. And she _threatened_ him. _She fucking threatened him over it_. 

That’s not okay. Stiles is not going to sit here and take this. He’s going to fucking do something about it.

But he’s not going to confront Laura because she’s actually kind of scary and Cora’s even scarier and he’s afraid he won’t walk away from that one. 

But he’ll do the next best thing.

He’s going to tell Derek to tell her to lay off. 

And also tell Derek to not be a fucking asswipe because there’s only one person she could’ve gotten her information from, and if Derek thinks he can talk shit like that about him, he has another thing coming. 

“Where are _you_ going?” Isaac asks, long body draped over the couch, as Stiles grabs his hoodie from the back of his chair. 

“I’ve gotta see a werewolf about being a fucking asshole,” Stiles says. He yanks the hoodie down all the way, pockets his keys.

“Good luck!” Isaac calls to him as he heads out the door.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has a similar warning to chapter 5 WARNINGS AT END IF YOU NEED THEM  
> anway  
> here we go, lovelies!  
> it's the FINAL COUNTDOWN...*cue music and me in a cape with flames shooting behind me and doves flying from my sleeves*  
> but really, this fic has been a very strange journey and i'm so glad that y'all've have taken it with me :D  
> enjoy!!
> 
> also, it's Dylan's birthday!! yay!!!

Stiles drives a little too fast, drunk on righteous anger. It starts waning when he’s halfway across town, so he pulls his phone out and plays the message again and _wow_ , he’s going to give Derek a fucking earful. To pass on to Laura. Because he really doesn’t doubt that she would fuck him up, if given the chance. 

But Derek’s safe. 

Safe and an absolute _asshole_.

What did he even _say_ to her? Like _oh, hey sis, you know that dude I was fucking? Yeah, he actually started to_ like _me, can you believe it? How fucking dumb is that? And the worst part is that he doesn’t want to fuck anymore. Isn’t_ that _just pathetic_.

It just makes Stiles _burn_. If they think they can get away with that bullshit, they have another thing coming. That’s for fucking sure.

He _almost_ keys Derek’s fugly-ass Toyota, but he’s trying to be above that level of petty shittiness, _unlike some people_. 

The elevator is totally in cahoots with the fucking Hales because it’s _inhumanely_ _slow_ and it stops two floors below Derek’s and there are _children_ , so he can’t even swear at it out loud. Their mom is giving him the evil eye, probably because he’s chewing on his hood drawstring like it’s Hale sinews or some shit and he’s _this_ close to screaming in frustration or ripping the fucking elevator buttons out of the wall. 

But he contains himself. He holds himself back all the way to Derek’s door. 

Barely.

Really, at this point, he kind of hopes that Laura’s there. Because fuck it, he’s not a period cramp. He’s a _person_ , and he doesn’t deserve _any_ of this. 

So he knocks maybe a little hard and fuck Derek, he can get surprise-yelled-at, too. Because it’s his fucking fault. Whatever bullshit he said to Laura and _wow_ , Stiles wants to wring his stupid, muscle-y neck.

The door is yanked open and Stiles hears, “I swear to fucking _God_ , Laura, I will—” 

But then Derek stops and he stands there, and Stiles chokes on the rant he’s got lodged at the back of his tongue. 

Because Derek looks kind of shitty, actually. His hair is flat and he’s only wearing sweatpants, which could be a cool, sexy thing that people with eight packs do, except he’s got pillow creases on his stomach and face. And he just looks _tired_. 

“What are you even doing here?” Derek asks after too long. He scrubs a hand over his face, rubs at his eyes. 

Stiles isn’t really sure what to say because unless this is what Derek looks like hungover from staying out all night living it up, it doesn’t _look_ like he’s recently said anything assholish and unfair.

It looks like he doesn’t have to say anything at all, actually, because he’s retreating into his apartment, leaving the door open. So Stiles follows. Because he’s curious about all of this, wants to know exactly _what_ he said to Laura, why he looks like this, and the only way to find out is to talk it out of him. 

Derek stops in his living room, not sitting down or anything. His arms cross over his chest. 

“What do you want?” It’s resigned, like he thinks he knows what Stiles is going to say. Like he knows that Stiles came here to tell him off. Or thinks he’s here to tell him something else, like he figured Stiles would do what they all told him to and come lay himself at Derek’s feet or what the fuck ever. Well, fuck that. He thinks he’s going to see Stiles make an ass of himself? He thinks he’s going to see some sort of pathetic emotional investment? Well, fuck him. 

“I was _bored_ ,” Stiles tells him, thinking hard about the calculus he was doing earlier so it doesn’t read as a lie. “I had nothing better to do.”

Derek stares at him for a long moment, face totally unreadable. 

“This is the last time,” Derek says at last. “Don’t come back after this. I’m done.” He leaves, barefoot, down the hallway to his bedroom, and Stiles is very confused for all of two seconds before Derek yells for him. “ _Hurry up! I’m not fucking in there!_ ” 

Stiles goes after him, and he only _just_  gets it. Why Derek would get _let’s fuck_ out of what he said, but it isn’t _really_ what he’s was going for. 

But his dick doesn’t really get that message. When he gets to the doorway and sees Derek stretching across the bed to get into the nightstand, it takes a definite interest. He doesn’t have control over that. It’s not his fault. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just biology.

“I didn’t come here to fuck,” Stiles tells him. 

Derek sits up, gives him a paint-peeling look. “Of _course_ you didn’t.”

“I wanted to talk.”

Derek snorts. “Yeah, because we’re so good at that.” He gets up and stalks forward, pulls Stiles close by his hoodie’s tummy pocket. “I’m just surprised you lasted this long.” 

Stiles jerks away. “No, _fuck_ you. You don’t get to say shit like that.” Derek’s face twists into something like a sneer. “I’m only here because I got a shitty voicemail from your sister, and I don’t want anything like that again. You hear me? This has _nothing_ to do with her.” 

Derek’s eyes go wide then drop to the floor. His arms cross over his chest.

“I didn’t know she was going to call you.” His voice is quiet but intense. “She wasn’t supposed to do that.”

“Yeah? What was she _supposed_ to do, then?” 

“Fuck off, that’s what.” Derek rolls his eyes, then looks away. “What did she say, anyway?”

“She called me a walking period cramp, that’s what she said. So fuck both of you. I don’t deserve that. I don’t know what you _told_ her, but I don’t deserve that.”

“I didn’t say you did,” Derek says, going to sit on the edge of the bed. His head falls into his hands. “I didn’t think she’d contact you.”

Stiles shrugs, pacing for a step before sitting next to Derek. “You need to charge your phone, by the way. She, uh, texted me.” Something occurs to him, thinking of the text. “Wasn’t your parents’ anniversary tonight?” 

Derek turns his head and levels a glare at him. “ _I wasn’t feeling up to it_ ,” he grits.

“Oh.”

So he’s _sick_. That’s why he looks kind of...well, not exactly _underwhelming_ because he’s always painfully gorgeous in a really stupid way, but he’s a little...less. That makes sense. 

“I’m taking a break until January,” Stiles says to fill the weird silence. “Maybe longer. I don’t know.” 

“I haven’t talked to Elaine yet, but I can, if you need me to,” Derek says, and Stiles hates him a little bit for that. For being a decent guy in at least some capacity. It would be easier if he were just an all-around asshole. A lot fucking easier. Then Stiles wouldn’t have feelings for him in the first place. 

“Can I get back to you on that one?” Stiles asks because it feels wrong to say yes and he can’t bring himself to say no when he might need it. 

“Whatever.”

Stiles looks at him and thinks he should probably just _tell_ him already, or tell him _something._ Apologize? No, not that, but _explain_. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, clears his throat, continues, “about the other day...I should—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Derek tells him. “Don’t say it.”

“Look, we didn’t even _talk_ , I just think we should—”

Derek cuts him off with a kiss, knocks into Stiles’ teeth hard enough that he tastes blood and jerks back. Wipes his mouth. Derek’s lip heals before he can voice his indignation. 

“You can’t just _do_ that,” Stiles says. “You can’t decide when I’m allowed to talk. It’s not fair.” 

“I can’t do this right now,” Derek tells him. “You can talk, _we_ can talk, just...not right now. Not yet. I’m not ready for that conversation.” 

Stiles shrugs. “Well, I’m not leaving until we talk. I don’t think you’ll want me to come back after.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Derek says. It sounds cold.

“Well, _I_ won’t want to come back after.”

Derek looks at him, hard and unwavering. “Then one last time. That’s all I ask. And then we can talk and you can leave and never come back.” 

Looking at him, Stiles wants to hate him for asking. It’s a shitty thing to do, but then, Stiles has had sex with him. He knows what they’re like together. He _knows_ how good it is, and if there were some way to just cut off his feelings, they wouldn’t be here discussing last times. They’d probably already be naked. 

But Stiles has to figure out what he can take. If he can handle a last fuck. If he can handle Derek wanting one. 

“It’s up to you,” Derek says. “I’m not going to _make_ you sleep with me. I hope you know I’m better than that, at least.” He leans back and stretches out on the bed, forearm over his eyes. Stiles feels guilty for looking at him, but if he’s asking for sex, it’s not like he doesn’t want to be looked at.

That’s how he justifies it, at least.

The problem with it all is that he knows, has from the second Derek asked, that he’ll do it. And he hates that Derek knew he would. That Stiles might care for his own happiness from a distance, but put him here in a room with that offer on the table and he can’t find enough self-preservation to say no.

“We’re not doing this again,” Stiles says, looking for agreement. “After this, we’re done. We leave each other alone. No slip-ups.”

“Okay.”

Stiles lays down next to him, looks him in the eye. “I mean it. I refuse to be a Maroon 5 song.” 

“You know, their first album isn’t all that—”

Stiles gives him a disbelieving look. “How did I not know you’re a hipster? All this time.”

“I’m _not_ , Jesus, would you just—” Derek rolls over onto his side and pulls him into a kiss, a lot softer than before.

Stiles should probably tell him that’s a jerk move, but he _missed_ kissing Derek. He likes the way their mouths fit together, the way Derek kisses him like he knows just what to do to get Stiles hot. Or it’s just that Derek gets him hot, probably. Because they’re kissing soft and slow, barely any tongue, even, and somehow Stiles is almost forgetting why this is a bad idea. 

Derek lets him push him onto his back and slide over him. His legs part for Stiles willingly, and now he’s faced with something of a dilemma. If this is their last time, what does he want from it? 

When he pulls back, it takes Derek a second to open his eyes. 

“How do you see this going?” Stiles asks. 

“However you want.” 

Stiles narrows his eyes, chewing that one over. It’s nice of Derek to let him choose, but he’s not sure about what to do. Fucking Derek is a gift, and he has this petty urge to fuck him so good he’ll wish it was Stiles any time someone else fucks him. But he doesn’t want to be like that. That part of him is ugly and cruel. 

If he lets Derek fuck him, he’ll have that memory, at least. Which might not be good for him, but _not_ knowing would probably be worse. He has to know, has to watch the needle go into the skin when he gets shots, even though it makes him nauseous. If he doesn’t know, he’ll wonder, think about it too much. It’ll be harder to move on if he’s thinking about it. 

“Fuck me,” Stiles decides. “Hard.”

If he’s lucky, maybe Derek will be able to fuck the feelings out of him. 

But he’s not going to count on it.

“How hard?” Derek asks, pulling up Stiles’ shirt and hoodie. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“I’ll show you,” Stiles tells him and slides off the bed. He strips with ruthless efficiency. Derek watches for a second, then climbs up the bed and grabs the lube. When he comes back, Stiles drags down his sweatpants, breath catching in his throat at the sight of his cock because he’s fucking _addicted_ to Derek’s body. That’s not normal. People aren’t supposed to feel like this, all strung out between desire and despair. 

If he were stupider, he might say something like _I wish you could love me_. 

But it’s not Derek’s fault. He’s better at shutting people out, that’s all. He’s better at disconnecting, and really, Stiles is jealous. It’s safer to be like that. Hurts less. 

“Can I open you up?” Derek asks, propped up on his elbows. His foot slips up the back of Stiles’ calf, draws him in towards the bed, and Stiles nods. 

“Yeah, but hurry up about it.” He plans a knee on either side of Derek’s body and looks down at him. Derek’s hands skim up his thighs for a second before he grabs the bottle of lube next to his head. 

Stiles bends down and licks a stripe from the hollow of Derek’s throat all the way up his neck to his jaw. It’s maybe a stupid thing to do because he gets in the way of Derek’s hands, but if this is the last time he’s going to get to do this, he’s going to do it however the hell he wants. 

He kisses Derek hard and wet, licks deep into his mouth. Against his hips, he can feel Derek’s arms, getting his fingers slick behind Stiles’ body. Derek bites his lip and it’s enough to distract him from fingers sliding against his hole. 

“Don’t fuck around,” Stiles tells him, mouthing against the scrape of his chin. “I’m not looking to waste time.”

The tips of two fingers slick against him. “Yeah?” 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Stiles answers, then sucks at Derek’s jaw as the fingers press in. It might be a little much, but his body responds to Derek differently, likes it enough that he pushes back until he can feel Derek’s knuckles. 

Derek stretches him quick. It passes in a blur of Stiles’ teeth and lips burning against his stubble, his nails scratching down Derek’s arms, a dizzying twist and pull of fingers. It’s fast. Faster than Stiles usually is with himself, but he wants it like this. Wants to feel it. And he’ll have enough time to adjust later. 

“Lube?” Stiles asks, holding out his hand. He sits up as Derek slips out of him, presses the bottle into his hand. 

Reaching behind himself, he finds Derek’s cock and drips a bit of lube down it. Enough. He tosses the bottle up the bed and scoots back, lines himself up so that he can feel the head of Derek’s cock against his hole. For a moment, he watches the crinkles of Derek’s squeezed-shut eyelids, the flick of his tongue over his lips. It’s lovely, how he’s like this already. Because this gets him too, or he wouldn’t have asked. 

Stiles sinks down, mouth falling open at the stretch. He has to grab at Derek’s shoulders as he slides down. It’s too fucking much, yeah, but it’s _good_ , too. But _fuck_. 

“Gimme a second,” Stiles says. He settles a little more, vision going wonky at how full he feels. 

One of Derek’s hands wraps around Stiles’ cock, slick, gets him hard again. It’s just a distracting at first, but Stiles’ hips start to rock into his hand. Just a little at first, but he gets comfortable with it, gets accustomed to the feeling of Derek’s cock in him enough that he can move deliberately. 

Maybe part of it’s that he _never_ has sex without a condom. (Well, not professionally. Sometimes, he’ll end up giving a casual bj without, but he always swallows. So it could be less safe, but he gets tested regularly anyways.) He’s _never_ had a dick in his ass without a condom before, though, and he’s trying to tell himself that’s why he’s moaning like it’s his first time. He’s had a few _big_ guys, so that’s not it, even if Derek’s _very_ proportional. It’s probably just that he hasn’t been fucked since before Derek. So about two weeks. It’s been a _while_.

Fuck it, there’s no point in pretending.

It’s fucking _Derek_. It’s the fact that some stupid part of him wants to do this long-term, and that he actually _wants_ Derek to get off, and not because he’s getting paid or anything like that. He just wants Derek to come his brains out. That’s why he’s only _mostly_ keeping it together. 

But he’s good at this. He knows how to ride a guy well, has the thigh muscles to be able to do it. Knows how to roll his body and tighten a little bit so Derek grabs his hips and just holds on. 

“I bet you’ve thought about me fucking you like this,” Stiles says because he _hopes_ Derek has. And if what they have is sex, well, Stiles knows his attributes. 

Derek nods quickly, bites his lip a little. “Since the first time I saw you on camera.” 

He throws his head back and Stiles wants to grin or maybe lick the soft give of Derek’s open mouth. But he won't. Not yet.

When Derek rocks up against him, he’s not surprised, moves with it. “When was the last time someone fucked you properly?” Stiles asks. 

“ _You_ ,” Derek pants, fingers sinking into Stiles’ skin for a second before loosening. 

“Before that?” He punctuates it by coming down hard, pulling a groan out of him. 

Derek shakes his head, tipped back against the sheets. “Just you.”

Stiles _does_ grin then because if he can’t take anything else from this whole ugly mess, he’ll take that. If he can’t be anything other than the best fuck Derek’s ever had, then so be it. But he’ll be the _best_ best fuck Derek’s ever had. He’ll blow his fucking mind. He’ll be impossible to forget. 

“I’m gonna make you come, and then I’m not going to let up,” Stiles tells him. “I’m not gonna let you get soft. And then you’re gonna show me what you can do. Got it?”

Derek nods quickly, hands sliding down to Stiles’ thighs. They look good on him. It’s too bad. It’s too fucking bad they can’t keep doing this, and maybe he hates Derek for that a little bit. Or himself, maybe. Because it’s bad, yeah, but it’s fucking _great_. 

There’s a moment when Stiles wants to bend down and kiss Derek, wants Derek to wrap him in his arms, wants to move slow until they’re shuddering and _have_ to hold onto each other.

But he’s not going to let Derek win. He’s not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much Stiles needs this. Well, needs _him_. 

Stiles leans back, hands finding Derek’s knees. He can feel that Derek's feet are braced against the floor, thank God, and holds on, rolls his hips up. For a second, he stills, eyes rolling back because _wow_ , that’s a good angle, but it’s a little _too_ good. So he shifts a little and tries again, grateful to find Derek’s not hitting _right_ against his prostate. 

Derek’s hands skim, sweat-slick, up his thighs to his hips, hold him so he can meet Stiles’ rhythm. It’s a pity Stiles won’t get to do this sometime with Derek totally at his mercy, but he can tell from the flex of Derek’s hands against him that he’s not going to last too much longer. 

He picks up the pace a little, smiles when Derek groans. Good thing he’s getting there because Stiles is getting a little tired. This angle’s usually good for both parties, but it’s killer on his lower abs and he can’t usually keep it up long. The strain works to distract him from the hot fullness of Derek in his ass. He doesn’t want to get off any time soon, wants this to last as long as he can drag it out. Wants to be tired enough by the end that he won’t be able to stress about what comes after. 

 _That_ thought’s a vicious motivator, and he fucks back down onto Derek as hard as he can. Has to hold onto Derek’s knees because he arches and grinds up, and _that_ is different. 

Stiles’ mouth falls open a little. It might be in his head, it’s possible, but he’s _pretty_ sure he can feel Derek coming. 

When Derek’s hands drop from his sides, Stiles takes that as cue to sit back up on him. It’s more control and it uses different muscles, thankfully, so he can ride Derek the way he needs to. Gently, because he doesn’t know just how sensitive Derek gets after, doesn’t know quite what he can take. And he won’t get to learn. 

Derek’s biting his hand, eyes squeezed shut, and the sight takes Stiles back to seeing him on the bed like this over Skype, when he was willing to do whatever Stiles told him. Too bad Stiles can’t just tell him to love him back.

Hands braced against Derek’s shoulders, he swivels his hips, then rocks against him. Slow at first, nice and easy because Derek’s nails are looking a little sharp. He can feel Derek jerking a little inside of him, overstimulated and raw, and fuck if it doesn’t get him hot. 

He pulls Derek’s hand out of his mouth and replaces it with his own fingers. When Derek sucks, it feels like a victory of some sort, if a dirty one. 

Derek might have the emotional upper hand, but Stiles has the power when they’re naked. If only because Derek lets him have it. But the fact is that he _does_ let him have it. 

“You think you can be ready soon?” Stiles asks. “You think you’re ready to show me how you fuck?” Derek nods, thrusts up into him to make his point, so Stiles eases off of him. “How do you want me?”

Derek’s eyes scan over him, then settle on his face, but he can tell Derek’s thinking hard. 

“Up by the headboard. You’re going to want something to hold onto,” he says. A shiver runs through Stiles as he moves up the bed. _That’s_ something he can totally get behind. Or, well, in front of. 

He bends almost in half, stretching out to put his ass on display in a way he knows is good. His hands wrap around the top of the headboard, and, smirking, he flexes them in anticipation. The bed sinks behind him as Derek moves into place. A finger trails up his spine to the top of his ass, light enough to prick up goosebumps. 

“Get on with it,” he says because it’s better than _I need you inside me_. 

Derek’s mouth settles, hot and wet, at the base of his spine, tongue twisting over his dimples. One of his hands skips over Stiles’ ass entirely, cups his balls gently before looping around his cock and giving him a good stroke. And Derek’s kissing his back because he’s cruel. Because it’s the best revenge. Feels like it.

Stiles stares at the wall in front of him, asks through gritted teeth, “You gonna keep screwing around back there? Or are you going to _fuck_ me?”

It’s fucked up, but he wants Derek to fuck him _too_ hard. Needs the reminder that Derek’s in this to get off, that he’s just a means to an end. Needs to feel like he’s being taken for granted. 

The wet head of Derek’s cock slicks against him, deliberate in the way it catches on his hole, presses in a little but not enough to do anything. He’s about to complain when Derek stops, eases the bluntness of his cock past his rim. All the way in with one too-slow slide. 

His back grows warmer when Derek leans over him, a hand fisting in his hair, pulling his head back. Derek’s breath is hot against his ear.

“You want me to fuck you?” he asks, grinding in a little deeper in a way that makes Stiles’ mouth open in a silent moan. “I’ll _ruin_  you. Remember this. Remember me. I _dare_ you to find someone who can give you what I can.” He presses a sharp kiss to the shell of Stiles’ ear and then he’s gone. It’s possible he doesn’t notice Stiles pressing his face into his arm, biting his lip because he’s _not_ going to cry, goddamnit. Fuck, he _isn't_.

It’s not fucking fair. It’s not right that he gets to do that, gets to remind him, but maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe he should leave now, stop doing this, but it’s better to stay, isn’t it? If it’ll make it easier to get over him. And he _needs_ that. 

Derek’s hands are hot on his hips like a brand and the deep, hard drag of his cock winds him up inside his skin. It scrapes his nerves raw, almost sweet, like biting the inside of his lip to a bruise he can’t leave alone. But it’s not right. It’s backwards, like the movement is Derek repeatedly pulling away instead of entering him. 

“You can do better than that,” Stiles tells him, teeth bared even though Derek can’t see. “Fuck me like you _mean_ it.”

“You think you can take it?”

Stiles turns his head, glares. “You think I _can’t_? Show me what your dick is for, asshole.” Derek’s jaw clenches like he’s grinding his teeth, but he nods, jerks his head to get Stiles to move up the bed. Because apparently, he’s not going to waste _words_ on him. 

But Stiles moves up, braces his forearms against the flat of the headboard while Derek grips the top. 

The first thrust forces his mouth open. It doesn’t _hurt_ , but it’s hard and a little sudden. Before he can really process it, though, Derek does it again and again, and Stiles drops his head, just goes along for the ride. 

Usually, Stiles doesn’t like this, doesn’t like getting fucked so hard and fast he can barely _breathe_ , but he wants the intensity. Wants to be fucked silent. At least he won’t be able to say anything stupid, doesn’t have to worry about it, can focus on just the cock pounding into him, Derek’s hips slapping against his ass. 

Derek’s arm slips under his chest, reaches up to grip his shoulder and hold him in place. Thank fucking God because it’s getting to the point where it’s so good his body almost can’t handle it, but he wants more. Wants Derek to make him take it. 

It’s not about coming, really. It’s a different sort of pleasure, one he’s tiptoed around the edges of before. The burn in his body is making him something else.

He’s gasping around the feeling when he feels something hot-cold, wet, at his eyes. It’s not really clear to him whether he’s crying or his eyes are just watering, but Derek stops almost immediately, and then Stiles _does_ make a noise, almost a moan. 

“Did I hurt you?” Derek asks. He leans back from the headboard, smoothing a hand down Stiles’ side. 

Stiles has to take an inventory of his body, make himself think about the physical so he can answer. “No,” he says. “Keep going. Don’t stop.” 

It’s a moment before Derek leans over him again, but this time, he pulls Stiles up with him, holds him against his chest. One of Derek’s forearms wraps around his ribs and he hooks his chin over Stiles’ shoulder. 

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he says, and Stiles braces himself better on his spread knees, grabs the headboard with one hand. The other finds Derek’s, running over his hip, and brings it across his stomach. It feels like stealing, wrapping himself up in Derek, like he’s somehow loved, but he doesn’t fucking care. He deserves at least this much, and Derek goes with it, anyway, holds him close as he begins to rock up into Stiles’ body.

The angle is deeper like this, and when he arches his back, it feels like Derek is reaching impossible places. 

The first scrape against his prostate hits him like a shockwave, throws his head back against Derek’s shoulder, a soft noise lodged in the back of his throat. Derek’s mouth finds the underside of his jaw. He sucks and scrapes against Stiles’ raw skin as he rolls his hips against Stiles’ body. It’s striking a match, making him burn up from the inside, and there’s too much of it. There’s nowhere for the feeling to go until Derek’s hand wraps around his cock and _oh_.

His hand flies up from the headboard, gets into Derek’s hair and _tugs_ when the first wave forces its way through his body. It’s all he can do to hold on when he shakes through it, lets the pleasure wind its way through him. Hard and fast and mind-numbing.

And Derek holds him up through it. Keeps him in his body, thumbs a last bead of come from his slit when he’s done. His hand just sort of cups Stiles’ cock, and that’s about as much as he can take. He licks over bruises he’s left up the side of Stiles’ neck and jaw, soft, waiting. 

Stiles breathes. Lets his fingers go lax in Derek’s hair for a moment before spreading them over his scalp. Digs them in a little.

Derek’s still hard in him, and he’s almost entirely sure he hasn’t gotten off yet, so Stiles grinds back against his hips, angling to avoid his prostate. The hand holding his softening cock lets go, wraps around his middle at first. It’s slow. Derek doesn’t pull out of him at all, just rolls into him. 

The hand leaves Stiles’ belly and comes up to take his chin. Turns his head so Derek can kiss him, brow furrowed. He sucks Stiles’ lower lip into his mouth, hand moving up into Stiles’ hair, and it’s _cruel_. It’s an ugly thing, this feeling of intimacy and need. It’s not fair. He shouldn’t get to do this, get to crack Stiles open and melt inside, wet and warm and almost _sweet_. But if he’s going to, then Stiles will take from it what he can. If it’s the last time they kiss, then Stiles will take what he’s never going to get.

He can feel it turn desperate as Derek fucks into him a little faster, grinds his cock into him like he never wants to pull out. 

If he had his way, Derek would be afraid to come because that’ll mean it’s over, but unable to stop himself. But maybe he’s projecting, maybe he feels cheated, feels this falling through his fingers. So he holds Derek’s arm against his chest, holds his head close, and kisses him, mouth closed and urgent.

Derek sobs against his mouth when he comes, and the sound hurts. His cock twitches deep inside, and Stiles is terrified. This is almost over. They’re going to separate, and once they do, they’re never going to be this close again. 

It’s futile, but he tries to memorize the feel of Derek’s lips, the scrape of stubble at the corners of his mouth and his chin. There’s no point. Derek’s all but stopped moving, just his hand, cupping Stiles’ jaw, and his mouth, moving softly like it’s the only thing he cares about. Like he doesn’t even know how much this hurts, how it’s only going to be worse when they stop. 

Because they have to. There’s only so long the kiss can last before it’s not something they can ignore. 

But when they break, Stiles chases his mouth anyway, captures Derek’s lip between his own. Just for a moment. But it’s wrong, and he knows it. It’s just prolonging the inevitable, so he pulls back. 

Derek’s eyes are squeezed shut and his face is so close, that’s all Stiles can really see, but his thumb traces over Stiles’ cheekbone. So Stiles kisses him again, because he’s stupid, but makes himself pull away as much as he can. 

He’s weak. That’s what it comes down to. 

Shaking, he brushes his nose against Derek’s, and he can tell by the shape of Derek’s brows that he’s frowning.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Derek tells him, the word hitting his lips in a little puff. He opens his eyes and they’re startlingly green and shiny. Stiles has had orgasms that’ve made him _weep_ a little before, so he’s going to take that as a compliment to his ass. Even if it feels cheap.

Derek’s eyelashes look stunning, and he thinks that maybe if he focuses on the beauty here, he’ll be able to ignore how this feels. 

No, there’s no use in pretending. 

He lets go. Stops trying to hold onto Derek like a lighthouse holds tight to the rocks. It’s over. Like all natural things, it’s reached its end.

He slips off of Derek, doesn’t look at him. His ass feels wet and open, more than usual, and he’s wondering if it’s Derek’s come, not sure how he feels about it. He sits gingerly, the way his tongue avoided the back of his jaw after he got his wisdom teeth out.

It was a mistake, all of it, but especially this. He should’ve insisted on a condom. It was raw enough already, probably should’ve had at least a _symbolic_ barrier between them. Shouldn’t have let Derek have one of his last remaining firsts. 

Now here they are and he has _no_ idea what to do. Should he get dressed? They should talk in clothes, shouldn’t they? But Derek’s not making any move to get dressed. He’s just sitting there on the opposite edge of the bed, shoulders hunched. 

Stiles wants to touch his back, follow the spirals of his tattoo with a finger for no reason, just to feel his skin. 

Part of him wants to just ask if they can keep doing this, even though he’s not sure he’d be able to survive it. Actually, he’s sure he wouldn’t. 

“You should leave,” Derek says quietly. Stiles frowns at his back, but he doesn’t turn. 

“I was serious, before,” Stiles tells him. “If we don’t talk, we’re just going to end up here again. I can’t do that.” 

Derek laughs, strained. “Don’t tell me you’re developing a conscience now.”

Numb and outraged, Stiles stares at his back, and _really_ , this is something they need to do facing each other. So he crawls across the bed, sits next to Derek with a little room between them. Enough space to breathe.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say about me, but I don’t deserve it.” Derek’s looking away, but Stiles doesn’t. “This doesn’t make me a bad person. It just makes me stupid.” 

Derek turns, looks at him with something almost like disgust, and Stiles is about to put him in his fucking place when he really sees Derek’s eyes. He turns away quickly, presses the heel of his palm into his eye socket, but Stiles knows what he saw.

“Why the fuck are _you_ crying?” Stiles asks, pissed about it, actually. “ _Jesus Christ_ , I know I’m a good lay, but you’ll find another hole to fuck or dick to suck. I _promise_.” 

With a suspiciously wet snort, Derek says, “I’m not fucking _crying_. I guess I just didn’t realize how much of a _fucking asshole_ you were.”

“Oh, _I_ ’m the fucking asshole?” Stiles yells, getting up. “Yeah, because I totally asked _you_ for a goodbye fuck when I knew you wouldn’t say no.” 

Derek gets to his feet, lip curled in a snarl. “Oh, sorry, I guess I forgot you’re being controlled by your _dick_. But no, you’re right, _I_ ’m the asshole for being selfish _one fucking time_. The only _fucking_ time the whole time we’ve known each other, _by the way_.” 

“I—” Stiles chokes, gaping at him. “ _Controlled by my dick?_ _That_ ’s what you’re choosing to call it? Wow, really fucking mature.” Derek rolls his eyes, and that’s fucking enough. “No, you’re right, you should totally get an award for _least able to acknowledge normal emotions_ , you fucking _douche_.”

“You think I haven’t acknowledged it? Oh, that’s right, because you were too busy getting your dick in my mouth to listen to what I was trying to say.”

Stiles looks to the heavens for some clarity on _that_ one. “What the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

Derek crosses his arms over his chest and huffs angrily, through his nose, nostrils flaring like a bull. “Fine. You didn’t know at the time. Whatever.” He shakes his head like he’s fucking done. “The point is, don’t you fucking try to pin this one on me. _I_ left you alone. You’re the one who came here looking for a fuck.”

“I didn’t come here to _fuck_ ,” Stiles tells him. “I came here to talk, which was obviously a shitty idea.”

“There’s nothing to say. You wasted your time.” Derek shrugs. “You made it pretty fucking clear the other day what you thought about it, so I’m sorry if I’ve _inconvenienced_ you.” 

“ _Inconvenienced_? Jesus, you’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?” Stiles shakes his head, grabs his shirt and hoodie off the floor.

“So glad you could get that one off your chest,” Derek says, fingers tapping against his crossed arms. 

“You know what?” Stiles asks, standing up. “I’m glad I didn’t say it. I’m glad you’re not the first one I ever told. You don’t deserve to have that.”

“I would say I’m _surprised_ you’ve never rejected anyone to their face, but shockingly, I’m _not_.” 

“You know, I—” The words hit him and he frowns. “Wait, what?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I said I’m not surprised you’re too fucking afraid of being confronted with actual consequences to reject anyone face-to-face.”

Stiles’ head hurts and he’s _frustrated_ because this is stupid. “Learn fucking English, dude. It’s _be rejected by_. I’m the direct object. _Jesus_.”

“ _What_?”

Derek just stares at him, eyes impossibly wide, as his arms fall to his sides. But a second later, he closes off again. Stiles has _no_ idea what that’s about.

“Don’t you fucking do that,” Derek tells him, pointing. “You think this is _funny_? Are you _enjoying_ this?” He shakes his head, sneering. “Well, _thank you_ , then. Thanks for making it easy to get over you.”

The hoodie slips out of Stiles’ hands. “ _Say that again_ ,” he breathes because he’s _not_ saying what Stiles thinks he’s saying, that’s not even possible. 

“ _Fuck_ you. Get dressed and get out.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, you said _get over me_. You said I was making it easy to get over me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Derek says, rolling his eyes, “I'm not allowed to say it out loud? I didn’t know my feelings were fucking _Voldemort_.”

“Feelings.” 

Derek looks away, shrugs, and _what_. 

No fucking way. 

No _fucking_ way. That’s not even _possible_. 

“Wait, _feelings_?” Stiles asks. “What kinds of feelings?”

He’s getting a fucking headache. What the _fuck_ is going on?

Derek looks at him like he’s suddenly realized Stiles is the stupidest person alive. “ _My_ feelings. For _you_. Those feelings. The fucking feelings we’ve been not-talking-about this whole time.”

“No no no no no,” Stiles tells him, voice going tight as something weird bubbles in his chest, “because we’ve been not-talking-about _my_ feelings for _you_ this whole time.” 

For a moment, Derek just squints at him.

Then he points at Stiles’ chest, and back to his own, eyebrows raised.

Stiles nods because _yes_ that’s what he means and _holy God_. His heart’s racing, he can feel it hammering against his ribs, in the tips of his fingers. 

 _Holy shit_.

Derek nods to himself, jaw clenching.

Looks at Stiles.

“I’m going to fucking murder you.”

For a second, Stiles thinks his idea of _feelings_ was _totally_ wrong, if he meant hate-feelings or something, but Derek shakes his head, says, “I’ve been fucking _wallowing in self-loathing_ for the past _who knows how many days_ for no fucking reason? I’m going to kill you. You’re dead. I hate you.” 

Stiles grins. “You wallowed over me?” He feels light-headed all of a sudden.

“I’m going to punch you in the face,” Derek tells him. “Your whole face. I’m going to punch all of it. All at once.” He looks so _serious_ about it, but he’s kind of pouting a little, but his eyes are wide, so wide. Stiles’ smile stretches wider and he makes grabby hands at Derek. 

“Come on. Let’s punch each other in the face,” he says, and, if a little reluctantly, Derek comes to him, lets Stiles loop his arms around his neck. “I hope you meant with your mouth, because that’s totally what _I_ meant.”

“I hate you so much,” Derek says, “you don’t even know.” But the corner of his mouth twitches, so Stiles is going to take that in a good way. 

“You know what? New rule: we do this weird thing where we _say_ things to each other instead of talking around them.” 

Derek glares at him. “I was completely justified.”

“Well,” Stiles says, choosing to ignore that, “looks like I’m going to go first, then.” 

He stares at Derek, and the words are on his tongue, but they’re kind of a big thing to let loose. 

He clears his throat, decides. “Derek, I _like_ you. In a not-just-sex way.” 

“Ditto.” 

Stiles stares at him because _really?_  That's the best he can do? 

“I like you, too. In a not-just-sex way.” His eyes drop. “I want to take you out sometime, if that’s alright with you. And not to fucking Taco Bell.”

Grinning, Stiles asks, “Pizza Hut?”

“I hate you.” 

“Aw, Schnookums, you say the sweetest things,” Stiles coos, then looks at Derek seriously. “I’m down, dude, but I’m serious about the pizza. I was probably going to go home and eat one in my shame, but we should totally get a pie.”

“A _pie_? Really?” Derek asks. “This is the fucking West Coast. Call it a pizza.”

“If it’s good, it’s a pie,” he says, then twists his fingers in the short hair at the base of Derek’s scalp. “I got a place on speed dial. Lemme call them. We can watch TV and cuddle on the couch and not put on clothes. If that’s cool. I think we’re kind of dating backwards, so I don’t know what’s good.”

“It’s good,” Derek says, and he takes Stiles’ face into his hands, lays a soft kiss on his lips. “It’s good.” 

“What do you like on your pizza?” Stiles asks him. “Because I totally don’t know. And that’s really stupid considering how long we've known each other.” 

Derek shrugs. “Cheese, pepperoni, I don’t really care.” His nose scrunches a little, which is a really great thing that Stiles wants to see about a thousand more times. But he’s got a task. Order the pizza. Yes. 

While he orders, Derek sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. His fingers interlock, twisting while Stiles talks. Looking at him is like seeing a dream come to life. Not just because he’s Derek, but because of what looking at him means. Because it means he’s wanted here. Because he wasn't the only one having a hard time saying goodbye. Because this isn't  _over_. By some miracle, it's okay.

Stiles hangs up, tosses his phone onto the pile of his jeans. “So, forty minutes. That’s not _too_ long. I can handle it without trying to eat your couch.” 

“Good.” 

Derek’s looking down at his hands, so Stiles touches his cheek. His eyes are bright when they look up at Stiles, and he takes Stiles’ hand into his own, turns it over. 

“You’re _sure_?” Derek asks. “You want to try this?”

“I...I’ve never had a real relationship before,” Stiles tells him honestly. “But I think I’d like to try it. With you. If that’s okay.” 

Derek kisses his palm and the tips of each of his fingers. 

“We should snuggle,” Stiles says. “And talk about stuff. While snuggling. I would say conversations have been proven to be more effective if they’re had while snuggling, but really, I just wanna snuggle you. If that’s okay.” 

With a nod, Derek rises. “My blanket’s in the living room. I’ve been on the couch pretty solidly for a few days.” He’s still holding Stiles’ hand, and it’s weird, but in a good way. Like he just wants to be touching him. 

They go to the other room and Stiles can see that Derek’s been nesting. 

He pulls Derek to the couch, wedges himself against the back and holds the blanket open for Derek to cozy up against him. It takes a moment to adjust for two sets of differently-sized limbs, but they settle neatly against each other, faces close enough to whisper. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Stiles asks.

Derek nods. 

“I was afraid of our video coming out. I was afraid you’d see it and see how obvious I was and think I was pathetic.”

“It _did_ come out,” Derek says.

 _Oh_.

“Did you watch it?” Stiles asks. He’s not sure why, but it feels weird, the idea of Derek watching it without him.

“I couldn’t,” Derek tells him. “I knew that if I did, I’d probably just sit here watching it over and over with a carton of ice cream.”

Stiles grins. “You would _not_. I can’t picture you eating out of the carton.”

“Well, considering that I kind of _did_ for the past however many days—”

“Four. It’s been four days. And they’ve been shitty.”

Derek looks at him for a moment. “Can I tell you a secret?” he asks, and Stiles smiles, nods. “After that first shoot? I told Peter I only wanted to shoot with you almost as soon as I got home.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought it would scare you off,” Derek says quietly. He looks so drawn, Stiles scootches forwards and kisses him on the nose. Surprise is a sweet look on him.

“You’re not going to scare me off,” Stiles assures him. “Not unless you have a secret kill room or something.”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“You _don’t_ have a secret kill room, right?” Stiles asks, and Derek gives him a look. “ _Kidding_.” 

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” he says, but his thumb sweeps over Stiles’ ribs in a way that feels almost sweet. And this, just this, feels good. Getting to just lay here and learn the sweep of his brows, the darker, brown centers of his irises, the directions his stubble grows in. Just being allowed to _look_. With no impetus to do anything else. 

“I think we should watch our sex tape,” he says, eyes tracing the curve of Derek’s right temple. 

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” 

Stiles smirks. “ _Yep_. Until I have reason to call it something else.”

“Like what?” Derek asks like he doesn’t really want to know.

“Like, _our_ _sweet slow bone vid_. I don’t know.” Stiles shrugs. “But I think we should watch it. Together. As a thing that we do.” 

“Okay,” Derek says, nodding. “We can do that. I can pull it up on the TV.”

“Oh dude, you have the _app_?” 

Derek nods, scooting out of the blanket to grab the remote next to the armrest above their heads. “Yeah,” he says heavily, flipping on the TV and scrolling through his AppleTV menu. 

When he hits the app, Stiles buries a smirk in his shoulder. 

Derek’s watched his videos.

Derek’s watched a _lot_ of his videos, wow. That Recently Watched section is full of familiar faces.

And the Popular This Week, well...according to the lineup, they’re number one. 

That’s actually kind of impressive. 

Go them. 

“Come on, let’s sit up. I wanna give this my full attention,” Stiles says, tapping Derek’s shoulder. They sit up, settle against each other with their feet on the coffee table. Stiles is a natural sloucher, which works well with Derek’s arm around his shoulders. It lets him wedge himself against Derek’s side, which could be warm later with the blanket, but the apartment’s not particularly warm. 

Derek hits _play_ and Stiles winces immediately. “Nope, mute that shit. I _hate_ hearing my voice.” 

So Derek does, and they watch their faces as they sit on another couch and talk. It’s weird, but they look like they’ve known each other forever.

“We’re kind of cute,” Stiles says with a grin, nudging Derek’s foot. Onscreen, Derek wraps him in a headlock, and Stiles looks up at Derek. “ _Look at them cuties_.”

“ _Shush_ ,” Derek tells him, but he nudges Stiles’ foot right back. 

The conversation’s over before too long, and Derek turns the volume back on. It’s a little too soon because Stiles still has a speaking line or two, but it’s not that bad. There’s barely any dialog, though he has to say, whoever was in charge of lighting Derek did a damn good job. 

When they kiss, Stiles _knows_ that it was stupid to pretend that any of this was less than it was. Because _that_ is not how he’s kissed anyone for a shoot. Never in his entire career. 

“I’m freaking _dumb_ ,” Stiles breathes. 

“Don’t worry, it’s mutual,” Derek says above him. 

It’s absurd, in a way. To see them both like this, like he’d thought no one could see him. Or like he hadn’t realized what he was broadcasting, which is terrifying because he _works in front of a camera_. 

“You know, I guess there probably aren’t many couples that can say they have their first kiss caught on camera,” Stiles offers when on-screen they start fumbling out of the room and into the hall. 

“I would say we should save it for posterity but I don’t think I want someone watching this.”

Stiles looks up at him, smirks and winks. “You know, it _is_ on the internet. I think that particular ship has sailed, buddy.” 

“No, I mean,” Derek says, then shrugs down a little. “Not something you can show the grandkids,” he finishes very quietly. 

Stiles is _not_ going to freak out about that or think too much about it, he’s just going to take it as Derek being a very forward-thinking individual and leave it at that. 

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Stiles shakes his head, then leans against Derek’s chest. “No, it’s good. It’s better you say it and it be awkward than when, like, ten years down the line, I think you hate me and don’t want to raise kids with me. Not that, you know, I’m thinking that far ahead because I have, like, _college_ to finish and I don’t have a real career yet. But it’s better than not saying it. Probably.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, but Stiles can feel him nod. It’s enough. 

And then Derek’s stripping on-screen, so Stiles has _plenty_ of distraction. And really, he needs to send an edible arrangement to whoever does the lighting. Derek’s abs look like _marble_. Warm, tan marble. Not that he’s objectifying his...person. He’s just very attractive. And, well, Stiles has tapped that. A couple times. 

 _Yeah_ he has. 

This is pretty great, actually, because he didn’t get to see Derek’s face for most of this. He missed the way Derek’s eyes had fluttered closed when Stiles had gotten his hand around Derek’s cock, and later, when he gets his tongue up in there... _well_. Stiles is going to have jerk off material for the rest of his life. 

Really, someone should do a montage of just Derek’s face through this. If Stiles had any doubts about his sexual prowess, they are _gone_. Because apparently he can get the job done for at least _one_ person. The only person he needs.

“You’re enjoying this,” Derek says. “A _lot_.” 

Stiles shrugs. “It’s hot. I like watching you get off. You know that.” That sounds too close to something he doesn’t mean, so he keeps going, “I mean, I like it when it’s me doing it, especially. I like seeing you feel good. I like seeing me _making_ you feel good. And your _face_. You’re gorgeous. I could watch you forever.” He twists up and sees that Derek’s looking away from the screen, probably because he’s going to come in a second, and that can be weird to watch that on your own face. 

But _damn_. 

Yeah, there are definite perks to getting to see this. Even though he’s not really paying any attention to himself. He can _handle_ it because watching Derek is a million times more interesting. 

They’ve cut the fingering down a bit, he’s pretty sure, and he’s about to say something about getting the raw footage from Boyd for _personal reasons_ when there’s a knock at the door. Derek pauses quickly, frowning.

Stiles checks the time below the screen. “Pizza’s early,” he says, then looks at Derek. “So, we’re both kind of naked, huh?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, getting up. He looks a little frazzled, like he’s trying to figure out if he should go for pants or take the blanket. 

“Blanket,” Stiles tells him, “and I’m coming with you because I’ll just assume the delivery guy is hitting on you in my absence. I swear, I’m really not the jealous type. Except when I am. Like right now. One day, I’ll be totally secure, I promise, but that day is not today.” He’s shepherding Derek towards the door, grabbing money of the kitchen counter, and the knocking is louder, more insistent this time.

Stiles pulls the blanket over his shoulders like a cape, comes up behind Derek and wraps his arms around Derek’s middle. Yes, despite the fact that everything important is covered, they’re pretty clearly naked. But it looks like a coitus-interruptus kind of thing, not a pervy thing, and they’re both hot, so whatever. 

The delivery guy only has time to get through the first in his next series of knocks before Derek opens the door, Stiles’ chin on his shoulder.

This, of course, means that Derek is probably partially deafened when Stiles screams like a little girl. 

Because that is _Laura_. 

And not _just_ Laura. That’s the whole fucking _family_.

Luckily, Derek has quick enough reflexes that he slams the door shut and locks it before anyone does more than stare at each other. And scream, in Stiles case. 

Derek rubs his ear, sparing a split second to give Stiles a dirty look before visibly panicking. 

“Dude,” Stiles says. “ _Dude_ , what do we do? What do we _do_?”

A fist pounds on the door, and _thank God_ it’s not flimsy wood like his bedroom door, or it’d probably be a pile of splinters. 

“Go get dressed,” Derek tells him, trying to see something through the peephole as Stiles retreats. “And _bring me pants!_ ” he yells. 

Stiles does _not_ need to be told twice. 

He runs, scoops clothes off the floor, races back. Throws his shirt at Derek because there wasn’t one laying around and he needs _armor_ for this. 

Shit, the neighbors are probably going to complain about the banging. 

Stiles dresses in record time, yanking his hoodie over his head, jeans and underwear over his hips. He’s glad for the extra layer between Laura and his balls, really. It looks like Derek’s good, even though the shirt is _clearly_ not his, and Stiles is halfway through signaling him to let the flood through the gates when he remembers the fucking living room. The _television_. Which, right now, is paused on Stiles getting ready to slip his dick into Derek’s ass. 

Yeah, that’s a good save. But a second after he gives Derek the thumbs up, he hears him open the door and _fuck_. 

“ _Naked? You answered the door fucking NAKED? With HIM?_ ” Laura yells, and it’s all Stiles can hear over basically _all of Derek’s family yelling over each other_.

 Stiles can’t help him, too far away, and he’s wishing he had a dog whistle or something when Laura sees him.

“ _You_ ,” she growls, marching over to him. Stiles parkours over the coffee table, looking around for something to put between them. “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing here? I’m actually going to _murder_ you. And you know what? I’m going to _enjoy_ it.” 

“ _Help!_ ” Stiles squeaks. He grabs for the nearest thing—a lamp—and holds it in front of himself. “Please don’t menstruate me!” he blurts.

“Oh, I’ll make _you_ menstruate,” she tells him, lunging, but Derek grabs her arm. 

“Laura, _no_ ,” he says, breaking out the alpha eyes. 

She’s visibly challenging him, but it’s gone very, very quiet, and Stiles is still holding a lamp as a shield like that’ll do him some good.

Welp. 

This is going _great_.

“Leave him alone,” Derek says, then casts a look at the rest of the crowd, halfway into the living room. “All of you. I mean it.”

And _now_ it’s super awkward. 

Which is kind of a step up from _immediately_ _life-threatening_ , so.

Everyone’s looking at Derek or him, and it’s _not_ pleasant, so he says the first thing that comes to him.

“Happy anniversary?” he offers with a weak smile. 

“You must be Stiles,” Derek’s mom says with a little nod, and nope, this is definitely a worse situation than the real first time they met. Way, way, way worse. She holds out a hand, and he has no choice but to climb over the coffee table, making a wide berth around Laura, to shake it. The rather dashing (for an older dude) man next to her offers his hand as well, and Stiles shakes it too. Derek _totally_ gets the brows from him, wow, that’s scary.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Stiles,” Derek’s dad says, smiling, and that’s kind of terrifying, actually. Whatever he’s heard about Stiles must be _horrible_. 

“So can we hurry up and get this intervention over with?” Cora asks. “Because Isaac promised me a hot redhead ten minutes ago.”

“ _Intervention?_ ” Derek grits out. 

Elaine steps forward, hands clasped in front of her. “I think we’re supposed to be sitting down for this part, but we’ve been concerned about you lately, Derek.” 

“I’m fine,” he tells them. “Seriously.”

“Some of your actions have lead us to worry about your well-being,” she says. 

“What she _means_ ,” Laura says, “is you’ve been fucking this _jerk_ and it needs to stop. He’s _hurting you_ , Derek. I— _We_ can’t sit by and watch it happen.” Stiles is a little offended, but mostly terrified because she’s giving him a glare that could probably hard boil an egg. 

Derek shakes his head. “It’s fine. Stiles and I have worked things out. We have an understanding.” 

“For the record, it’s pretty shitty to fuck someone who’s in love with you,” Cora says, looking at her nails. “And I might be inclined to injure someone who would do that to my brother. Just throwing that one out there.”

“What have I told you about making vague threats, dear?” Derek’s dad asks, looking at Stiles intently.

“That they’re far less effective than explicit threats like, for example, Stiles, _if you fucked my brother over like that, I’ll rip your throat out. With my teeth_.”

“Just so we’re all on the same page here,” Stiles says, “I’m totally on-board the feelings train. And it’s, like, a _bullet_ train. Like, I’m already in Tokyo, I’m serious.” 

Everyone’s looking at him, but Derek’s smiling, so at least _someone_ kind of gets what he’s saying. 

“It was all just a big misunderstanding?” he offers.

Laura gently pulls her arm away from Derek and walks up to Stiles. “Would you ever do something that would hurt Derek, directly or indirectly?” she asks. 

“ _No_ ,” Stiles tells her with certainty. 

“Have you knowingly hurt him in the past?”

“ _No_ ,” he repeats. “Look, I thought you left that message because you thought I was a dick for having feelings for him when we were going to keep it casual.” Her eyes narrow, and he says, “By the way? Scariest voicemail I’ve ever gotten in my life.”

“ _Laura_ ,” their mother warns

“What was I _supposed_ to do? You didn’t see what he was like, Mom. It’s not like he would’ve said no if Stiles came here for sex,” she says, and Stiles feels guilty about that even though he shouldn’t, because that’s _exactly_ what happened. “You’re seriously telling me that I shouldn’t have tried to scare him off for Derek’s sake? Because _he_ couldn’t?”

“If that had been the case,” her mother replies smoothly, “there are far better ways to do that that couldn’t be traced back to you. What if he’d felt threatened enough to involve the police?”

Stiles shrugs. “I was just kind of pissed, actually. And before you ask, I came here to yell at Derek for telling you about it.” 

“Then why were you naked?” Cora asks, walking into the room from the kitchen with a foil bag of pre-popped popcorn. 

Five pairs of _very_ intense eyes settle on him and _wow_ , that’s not going to be weird to explain. There’s no good side to it, really. It was kind of fucked up.

“That was my fault,” Derek says. “And I’m pretty sure you don’t want the details. But Stiles and I are _fine_. We don’t need an intervention. A _second_ intervention, Jesus.”

“Hey, that’s right,” Stiles says, grinning. “You guys really like interventions, don’t you?” 

“Sometimes Derek needs them,” Laura says. “I’ve got a whole photo album of proof. Promtervention was the best, I think we can all agree.”

“ _Preach_ ,” Cora says, catching popcorn in her mouth.

“You were _eleven_ ,” Derek tells her.

“And even _I_ saw you were headed for a social disaster—”

“ _Enough_ ,” Derek’s mom says. “Can we all agree that Derek doesn’t appear to be anywhere near a state of distress and that we’re not going to kill his boyfriend? I’d like to go home and finish celebrating my anniversary.”

“Oh my God, Mom, _gross_ ,” Laura says while Cora chokes on popcorn and Derek looks _supremely_ uncomfortable. But Derek’s dad takes his mom’s hand and they smirk at each other. When it’s not _his_ parents, it’s kind of funny, actually. 

“Yes, we should _definitely_ go,” Derek’s dad says. “Oh, and Derek, remember birth control.” He winks, and it takes a second for that to set in.

“I think we’re good, anatomically,” Stiles says with a laugh. 

Derek’s dad’s face turns very, very serious, and he looks to Derek. “Did you not tell him?” he asks. Stiles’ stomach goes cold and tight with fear, but Derek’s dad grins. “ _Gotcha_.” 

Stiles takes a deep breath clutching his chest. “Oh my _God_ ,” he breathes, and Laura laughs at him. 

“Come on, dear, be nice,” Derek’s mom says. 

“Couldn’t resist,” he replies with a smirk. “Now what do you say we get out of here?” She slings her arm around his shoulders and they head out, talking quietly to each other, too quietly for Stiles to hear.

“I’m _vomming_ , stop,” Cora calls after them, voice a little hoarse from coughing.

“Go home,” Derek tells her, then looks pointedly at Laura as well. 

Laura looks at Stiles and back, says, “I’m still not sure how I feel about this.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you don’t have to feel anything about it,” Derek says. “It’s not your relationship. It’s mine and his and you don’t get to have a say in it.” 

There’s a moment where Laura seems pissed, but then she smiles. “Alright. If it gets you standing up for yourself, then I won’t hate.” She shrugs, palming her car keys. “By the way, next major anniversary? You’re paying for _everything_.”

“Definitely,” Cora agrees. “Now can we leave?” 

“Just a minute,” Elaine says. She hops over to Derek and kisses his cheek. “Sorry, I suck at mediating interventions, I’ve _still_ never seen the show. But you look happier than you did earlier. I’m glad.” 

Derek snorts. “ _Thanks_ ,” he tells her. It starts sarcastic but turns into something softer towards the end. 

“And _you_ ,” she says, leaning around Derek to look at him. “Remind him to give you my number.” 

Good thing, too, because Stiles gets the feeling it could be helpful to have someone who’s gone through the ordeal of in-lawing for this family. _Yeesh_.

Not that he’s in-lawing. 

She leaves, tugging Laura after her. Laura doesn’t seem to be at all sold on him yet, but he’s kind of okay with that. There’s always time. 

But then he and Derek are standing there and they’re alone and it feels like a whirlwind’s just blown through the room. 

Derek reaches up, scratches the back of his head. “So. That just happened.”

“Yeah, I guess it did,” Stiles says, then smiles a little. “Hey, we’re both alive? Howabout that? I mean, you were probably going to survive that, but I wasn’t.”

“I wouldn’t have let anyone hurt you.” It’s honest in the way he’s realizing Derek is. Never unprompted, never excessive, but real. And it’s _weird_ , still, feels like a dream he’s on the edge of waking from, that Derek’s feeling something for him, except that he can see it. 

“I meant it, about Tokyo,” Stiles tells him. “I mean, I’m not saying I’m about to move there permanently because it’s my first time really visiting and all, but I’m saying it’s a possibility. But let’s just see where it goes, okay?”

Derek nods, like he’s trying to take that in stride. His hands shape unfinished thoughts at his sides.

“Really?” Derek asks. “I mean, in general.” He waves a hand between them, sketching out the whole mess. “You want this?”

“Yeah, I do,” Stiles tells him. “If you do, I mean. I want to try, at least, because the alternative is, what? Not being with you? Been there, and it sucked, so I’d rather not, if it’s okay with you.”

“It is.” Derek looks him straight on. “Okay with me. I’d like to. And I’m sorry if I say things, sometimes, that you don’t want to hear, I just—“

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’m not saying no, but I’m not saying yes either.”

That warrants a nod, but it feels almost cruel, like it comes off different than he really means it.

“I’m just…I don’t really know. I have to finish college. Find a job. A real one. And I have _no_ idea what my future looks like, just that I kind of like the idea of you in it, so bear with me for a little while. Maybe a long while. So let’s just take it as it comes.”

“Will you stay the night?" Derek asks.

“Yeah. I’d like that.” 

They stand there, not sure what to do as people, what it all means for the immediate moment. Stiles looks at him and wants to touch him, wants to wrap himself around Derek to know that he’s there and not going to disappear. There are things that need to be fixed between them, but he’s not quite sure how to start. 

“Sit with me,” Stiles says, fishing for an answer. “Let’s just sit for a while.” 

It’s not everything that they need, but it’s a start. It’s something. 

 

* * *

 

The next morning finds Derek feeling settled in an unfamiliar way.

His head rises and falls softly, and when he opens his eyes, the soft wash of early morning light looks cool over the skin of Stiles’ stomach. Stiles’ leg is on top of his, not quite uncomfortably, his arm thrown over Derek’s shoulders. The sheet’s twisted around and between them. The blanket’s nowhere to be seen. 

He doesn’t move, worried that even the slightest shift of his arm across Stiles’ hip might wake him. It’s too early to wake. So he closes his eyes again, smiles to himself.

Falling asleep would be like losing this, so he keeps himself just barely awake. Suspends himself in half-sleep, opening his eyes every now and then to watch the light creep in brighter, listens to Stiles’ heartbeat shift gears as he dreams. 

It’s maybe an hour before Stiles wakes, and he does it slow, like he’s used to being up much later. But his breath catches as his lungs wake, and he inhales deeply, sighs. His hand curls against Derek’s chest. 

Derek can feel the minute ways he stretches in the movement beneath his cheek. The unlocking of his shoulders and spine, the settling of his ribs, the toss of his neck. He watches Stiles’ toes curl and uncurl, one foot falling to the side. His knees twitch, one calf drawing tighter to Derek’s legs, the muscle in the other jumping. 

When Stiles sighs again, a little louder, Derek shifts, looks up at him. Stiles’ eyes are heavy but open, and his smile is slow, like it’s just warming up. 

“Morning,” he says, and Derek smiles back. “We don’t have to get up yet, do we?”

“No,” Derek tells him, not even thinking about it. 

Stiles grins. “Then come up here, Sparkle Paws. I wanna spoon with you.” Derek winces. “It’s early. I’m not at the top of my pet name game just yet. Pretend it was clever and sweet.” 

He crooks a finger at Derek, who moves up his body and settles next to him, pulls Stiles against his back. One arm covers his ribs, one leg hooks over his hip, and Stiles’ breath is warm on the back of his neck. 

“Just so you know, I’m probably never going to let you go,” Stiles tells him matter-of-factly. “You wanna know why?”

“Why?”

Lips press against the nape of his neck. “Because I like you.” Derek smiles, eyes slipping shut. “Like, a crazy amount. And you know what?”

“What?” Derek threads their fingers together on his stomach. 

“I can’t stop smiling. I mean, lately’s been pretty shitty, but I didn’t even realize I wasn’t happy before, just kind of neutral. But I’m happy and it’s all because I like you. How weird is that? Who knew liking someone could make you _happy_?”

“News to me,” Derek tells him, only half sure he’s awake.

“You’re happy, too, though, right?” Stiles butts his nose against the back of Derek’s head. “It’s not just me?”

“ _I like you_.”

Stiles hums. “I like hearing you say it.” 

Derek presses against him a little closer, likes the feeling of warmth behind him, around him. Likes breathing in time with Stiles, their chests rising and falling as one. 

They lay like that until Stiles can’t ignore his bladder and leaves Derek. Well, not really _leaves_. He doesn’t feel _left_. 

When he checks the clock, it’s not late or anything, but they’re both awake and he’s getting hungry. So he gets up, not bothering to get dressed, and heads to the kitchen to see if there’s anything he could put together into passable food. There’s not much fresh stuff because he hasn’t been grocery shopping, no eggs or anything, but he finds some instant pancake mix in the cupboard that he doesn’t remember buying, and there’s syrup, so he can pull it together. 

He turns one of the electric burners on, heating up a pan, before he goes to put some music on.

Stiles comes in not long later. One of his hands finds the small of his back and his lips find Derek’s shoulder. His fingers tap in rhythm against Derek’s skin. 

“What’s this?” he asks, running his hand up Derek’s spine lightly enough to send a flood of goosebumps over his skin. 

“It’s a Sunday morning,” Derek tells him. “I thought it was appropriate. And I still say Maroon 5’s first album was good.”

Stiles snorts. “You know, I wasn’t trying to diss Maroon 5 last night. I was more referring to the fact that they’ve had, like, five popular songs about repeatedly sleeping with someone they shouldn’t. But it doesn’t apply anymore, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Derek confirms. He goes to find butter in the fridge and Stiles leans back against his counter. He’s naked in a careless way, comfortable in his body the way people come to be in their line of work, the way Derek imagines someone else might only feel with a lover. 

A lover is how he might describe Stiles. Not in a casual sense, but in the way of one who loves and is loved. 

They’re not saying it like that, and that’s alright. They don’t need to. 

“I like that you’re here,” Derek tells him, trying to put it into swallowable words. “I like you being here with me.”

Stiles smiles a small smile, the kind Derek wants to be just for him, careful and genuine. He holds out a hand, fingers slightly curved, and Derek sets his own in it, lets Stiles draw him into his arms. It’s a hug, essentially. Derek doesn’t do hugs a lot, not with people who aren’t family, but it’s more than that. It’s about being close, and Derek wants to call it intimate because they don’t need to be inside of each other for that. 

“I want to stay,” Stiles says, and it’s enough.

 

* * *

 

“ _That’s enough!_ ” Finstock barks, and they still. “Do the switch.” 

Stiles winces as Derek lifts off of him all the way, the sudden exposure to the air cold on his dick after the heat of Derek’s body. His legs spread open for the next position and between them, Derek kneels. One hand is wrapped around the base of his cock, the other extended, waiting for the assigned crew member to give him some lube. 

“Gonna really give it to me?” Stiles asks. “There’s no soap to slip on here, is there?” When he smirks at Derek, he gets a glare. “Come on, it was _funny_.” 

It _was_. There might have been a couple bruises, but considering the size of the shower and Stiles’ bad luck, it’s a Christmas miracle the morning’s attempted shower blowie didn’t end in the emergency room. Though, he has to admit, Derek took the soapdish to his kidney pretty hard. But he was okay, and it was totally worth it for Scott bursting in to see if they were okay and the way he screamed when he got an eyeful. 

“I _told_ you it was a bad idea,” Derek says. “It only works in _my_ shower.”

“Your shower has a bench and two showerheads. I can’t imagine what _wouldn’t_ work in your shower.” 

Derek’s hand is given a liberal squirt of lube and he brings it to his cock to start slicking himself up. “Napping, for one,” he says, smirking at the memory. 

“ _Not_ fair,” Stiles tells him. “That wasn’t even a nap, that was an impromptu walkabout in the spirit realm thanks to that godforsaken vibrator. That was some Deathly Hallows shit right there. Just saying, if you sit down and have a chat with Dumbledore, it’s not a nap.”

“You did _not_ see Dumbledore,” Derek groans. He moves in, tracing Stiles’ hole with wet fingers. 

Stiles shivers at the touch, lifting a leg up to give him better access. “Yeah? Do you remember when we tried it on you? Because you might not, since I _distinctly_ remember you blacking out a little there.” 

“I _do_ remember telling you that there was probably a limit to how many times I can come.” His fingers slip in, not really testing for real, since he was the one who prepped Stiles before they started shooting, but, as he’s told him, because he just likes fingering. “ _You_ were the one who wanted to see for yourself.” 

“ _Me_?” Stiles asks, grinning. “You _knew_ I couldn’t back down from a dare when you dared me to see if you really can have infinite multiple orgasms or not, which, we now know, you _can not_.” 

“I don’t know,” Derek says with a contemplative shrug, “I think we might need to do some more research on that one. Just to be sure.” He smirks, and Stiles can feel it when he sits up to kiss him. 

“Tomorrow night. Tonight, we’ve got dinner, remember?” 

Derek sighs, frowns. “Cora’s bringing her _special guest_ , isn’t she? Laura’s going to tear them apart.”

“You kidding?” Stiles asks. “I’m pretty sure Lydia can make Peter’s balls retract into his body. Laura? No problem.”

“He’s going to be there, you know.”

Stiles grins. “Then forget bringing a dessert, we’ll just bring popcorn. I can’t wait.”

“In case either of you didn’t realize,” Finstock calls at them, “we’ve got a _shoot_ going on, so if you two could hurry up, I won’t have to stab Greenberg in frustration.” 

“But you already did—“ Greenberg says, cut off by Finstock smacking him upside the head. 

“Your loitering on my set is a privilege,” Finstock tells him, “and it comes with the condition of _silence_.” He looks back at Stiles and Derek. “Now someone better tell me we’re only seconds away from comfortable penetration, or so help me.” 

“All good here, boss!” Stiles tells him. 

“Just a second,” Derek says, and cups his face, kisses him softly and neatly on the mouth. “Alright. We’re good.”

It’s kind of a ritual for them, a _nice_ kiss before the cameras start rolling, just a reminder of why they’re doing this, what it means. It’s something they don’t talk about, but it’s never a permanent thing, the not-talking-about-it. Things tend to come out at night or early in the morning when they’re sharing a blanket and the same air. Like the empty dresser drawer Derek left conspicuously open when Stiles’ clothes started piling up in his laundry, like the fact that Stiles’ dad and Scott’s mom are coming down for spring break, like what's okay to do on camera and what they save for themselves. It's all a dance around the right  _l_ -word that Stiles feels too young to mean, even if he does, and Derek's always a second from letting go.

“And…three, two, one, _action!_ ”

Derek falls into him, into his body and his arms. They fit together with a familiar precision, a square peg and round hole worn down until they can bear each other,  and for a second, it’s like the hundred times before and every time after, all at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit more intense this time. both parties consent verbally and physically, but are under the impression that the other is only using them for sex. one character believes the other has asked them for a last encounter because they won't be able to refuse, emotionally, and is upset by it for obvious reasons, but that's not the case.


End file.
